We got home under the quiet blanket of Limuru's midnight, the chill of the highlands settling deeper into my bones. The house was dark, silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the rhythmic creaks of a loose shutter swaying in the breeze. We entered cautiously, careful not to disturb anyone. The children, tucked in their beds, were sound asleep. Even the adults we had left behind hadn’t stirred they hadn’t known we’d left, much less the significance of the journey we had just returned from.
I lingered in the living room for a moment, letting the stillness of the house wash over me. Sister-in-law, Paul and my mother slept on the living room sofas, mumbling subdued goodnights. I moved to the bedroom, my normal sanctuary, but tonight it felt foreign.
As I lay on the bed, the emptiness of the space struck me. It wasn’t just the absence of her, the one who filled it with warmth, conversation, and laughter but something deeper, a shift I couldn’t quite place. The room felt cold, unwelcoming, almost as if it were mocking my new reality. I pulled an extra blanket over myself, praying silently as I tried to drift off. “God, guide me. Strengthen me.” But even prayer couldn’t fully thaw the chill that seeped into my heart.
For days after, going to bed became a small torment. I dreaded the icy solitude of the room. Each night, I’d try to settle in, adding more layers of blankets, but nothing could replicate the warmth I longed for. My thoughts raced, grappling with how to balance the demands of my work-from-home life with raising the children. Questions circled endlessly in my mind. Would I fail them? Could I fill the gap she left behind?
The first morning after her departure came quickly. Tata, our sister-in-law, had woken before the rest of us. I found her in the kitchen, the faint aroma of tea leaves wafting through the air. She moved with quiet efficiency, boiling water, adding milk, and preparing a hot tea. Her face carried an expression I couldn’t quite read somewhere between understanding and her own silent processing of what this change meant for the family.
By the time the others stirred from their rooms, Tata was gone. She’d left as quietly as she’d moved through the house that morning, her parting words echoing in my mind: “Uncle, all happens for good.” I hadn’t responded then, unsure if I truly believed it yet, but her words stayed with me.
As the house came alive with the morning bustle children asking for breakfast, my mother organizing to leave, I stood by the window, staring out at the mist that clung to the trees. The stillness of the early hours lingered, but a faint sense of resolve was beginning to build within me. The days ahead would be difficult, I knew. There were lessons to learn, mistakes to make, and fears to overcome.
But Tata’s simple kindness that morning, her quiet effort to ensure the house started its day smoothly, reminded me that even in this new and daunting chapter, I wasn’t entirely alone. Small acts of care, moments of encouragement they would guide me through.
And so, as the sun began to pierce through the mist, I inhaled deeply, steeling myself for the journey ahead. It wasn’t just a day to manage; it was the start of a new rhythm, a new life, a new purpose. And maybe, just maybe, all would happen for good.
I lingered in the living room for a moment, letting the stillness of the house wash over me. Sister-in-law, Paul and my mother slept on the living room sofas, mumbling subdued goodnights. I moved to the bedroom, my normal sanctuary, but tonight it felt foreign.
As I lay on the bed, the emptiness of the space struck me. It wasn’t just the absence of her, the one who filled it with warmth, conversation, and laughter but something deeper, a shift I couldn’t quite place. The room felt cold, unwelcoming, almost as if it were mocking my new reality. I pulled an extra blanket over myself, praying silently as I tried to drift off. “God, guide me. Strengthen me.” But even prayer couldn’t fully thaw the chill that seeped into my heart.
For days after, going to bed became a small torment. I dreaded the icy solitude of the room. Each night, I’d try to settle in, adding more layers of blankets, but nothing could replicate the warmth I longed for. My thoughts raced, grappling with how to balance the demands of my work-from-home life with raising the children. Questions circled endlessly in my mind. Would I fail them? Could I fill the gap she left behind?
The first morning after her departure came quickly. Tata, our sister-in-law, had woken before the rest of us. I found her in the kitchen, the faint aroma of tea leaves wafting through the air. She moved with quiet efficiency, boiling water, adding milk, and preparing a hot tea. Her face carried an expression I couldn’t quite read somewhere between understanding and her own silent processing of what this change meant for the family.
By the time the others stirred from their rooms, Tata was gone. She’d left as quietly as she’d moved through the house that morning, her parting words echoing in my mind: “Uncle, all happens for good.” I hadn’t responded then, unsure if I truly believed it yet, but her words stayed with me.
As the house came alive with the morning bustle children asking for breakfast, my mother organizing to leave, I stood by the window, staring out at the mist that clung to the trees. The stillness of the early hours lingered, but a faint sense of resolve was beginning to build within me. The days ahead would be difficult, I knew. There were lessons to learn, mistakes to make, and fears to overcome.
But Tata’s simple kindness that morning, her quiet effort to ensure the house started its day smoothly, reminded me that even in this new and daunting chapter, I wasn’t entirely alone. Small acts of care, moments of encouragement they would guide me through.
And so, as the sun began to pierce through the mist, I inhaled deeply, steeling myself for the journey ahead. It wasn’t just a day to manage; it was the start of a new rhythm, a new life, a new purpose. And maybe, just maybe, all would happen for good.
