Chapter 39: A Father's Role
Her uncle never called himself her father. But in every quiet action, he became the kind of protector Mary had longed for.
Each morning before he left for his military duties, he would check in on her—not just with words, but with responsibility.
"Have you eaten?"
"Your shoes—are they okay?"
"School—do you need anything?"
Mary had never known what it felt like to be looked after so simply, so silently. There were no big speeches, no emotional declarations. But he did what fathers do: he showed up.
On days he traveled for long periods, he gave her careful instructions.
"Remember," he said once, walking with her to the back of the compound, "if anything happens and I'm not around, go here."
He bent down, lifted the edge of the ladder that leaned against the back wall, and dug gently into the dirt beneath it. A tin box, wrapped in a black plastic bag, emerged.
"In here," he said. "Money. For food. For school. Only you know. Don't tell anyone—not even your aunt."
Mary stared at it with wide eyes, heart racing. It wasn't just money—it was trust.
Every few weeks, he would buy her new exercise books, pencils, a bottle of body lotion, or a fresh pair of socks for school. He didn't wait for her to ask—he paid attention.
She began to walk taller.
At school, teachers noticed the difference. She was no longer the hungry girl in faded clothes. She was prepared. Present. Focused.
She began to do well in class. Her notebooks were neat, her test scores rising. But more than grades, what changed most was her hope.
One evening, he sat her down quietly and said, "You are not like the others. I see your determination. I will not let it be wasted."
Mary didn't know what to say. So she just nodded, eyes full.
Her aunt still gave her work to do—cook, sweep, fetch water. But she could no longer mistreat her the same way. Not with her husband watching. Not with Mary walking in dignity now.
Though he wasn't her biological father, her uncle stepped into a role no one else had truly filled.
And in doing so, he lit a fire inside her that whispered:
You matter. You can rise. You are no longer alone.