Chapter 36: The Healing Begins
Mary arrived at her father's house with nothing but a small bag of clothes and a heart full of scars. But this time, she wasn't entering as a visitor. She wasn't coming for a short holiday. She was coming home—for real.
The compound looked different now. The walls had been painted. The roof patched. There was laughter in the air—her younger siblings running through the yard, calling her name with excitement. Monica stood beside her like a pillar, firm and proud. Their father, though still a quiet man, opened the gate for her with his own hands.
"Your room is ready," he said simply.
The room wasn't big. A mattress on the floor, a small table by the window. But to Mary, it was a palace.
No yelling. No harsh eyes watching her every move. No early-morning punishments or unequal treatment. Just peace. Space. And the gentle sound of a new beginning.
Monica became more than a sister—she became a protector, a listener, a quiet guardian of Mary's healing. She gave Mary time. She didn't ask her to open up immediately. But slowly, day by day, Mary began to breathe freely again.
She started writing in her notebook with a new voice—not only pain or prayers, but reflections:
> "Today, no one called me useless. Today, I was allowed to laugh."
"I helped Grace with her homework and felt proud."
"I think I'm becoming someone I like."
The road to healing wasn't fast. Sometimes at night, the memories returned. She'd flinch at the sound of raised voices. She'd over-apologize, still afraid to take up space.
But now, there was love to hold her through it.
Her father began making small efforts—offering her food himself, checking on her school supplies, asking her quietly about her dreams. It was awkward sometimes. But Mary saw the effort. And effort, to someone who's lived without love, is everything.
For the first time in years, she slept deeply.
For the first time, she began to trust peace.
Because home wasn't perfect—but it was hers.
And healing had finally begun.