12/10/2025
The Girl Who Lived With Us
Episode 3
The rain had stopped, but inside the house, the storm was still raging. Thabo left early that morning without a word. He didn’t touch his breakfast, didn’t glance at the children, didn’t even say goodbye. His silence was now his weapon, and it cut deeper than shouting ever could.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the black phone. I should have thrown it away, but I couldn’t. It was my proof — the evidence that the man who once called me his peace had built a home inside another woman. Each message I reread felt like a bruise forming inside my chest. I told myself not to cry again, but tears have their own will.
By afternoon, the children were home from school. I tried to smile, to cook, to pretend, but nothing tasted right anymore. Every sound in the house reminded me of him — his slippers against the tiles, his laughter, his scent. Even his absence was loud.
When Thabo returned that evening, I was ready. He entered the house with that same weary look, as though carrying invisible guilt on his shoulders. I met him in the living room. The air was thick — not with anger, but exhaustion.
“Thabo,” I began quietly, “I’ve read everything. The messages, the promises, the lies. You don’t need to hide anymore.”
He sighed and sat down, eyes fixed on the floor. “Nomsa,” he said, his voice low, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was lonely… I was lonely… I made a mistake.”
I almost laughed. A mistake? A mistake doesn’t last three years. A mistake doesn’t grow into a child. I stood there, shaking, my hands trembling from restraint. “You call it loneliness,” I said. “But it was comfort you were after — the kind I worked every day to give you.”
He looked up, finally meeting my eyes, and for the first time, I saw fear — not of me, but of losing the image he built for himself. “I still love you,” he said softly.
“Love?” I echoed. “Then why does your love feel like fear to me now?”
That night, I locked myself in the children’s room. They were asleep, peaceful, untouched by the chaos of adult betrayal. I sat by the window, watching the city lights of Soweto flicker like dying stars. I realized then that fear had replaced love — not because of what he did, but because I no longer felt safe in the life I built.
The next morning, I took a taxi to the salon training center where Lihle used to go. The owner, a kind older woman named Auntie Fikile, recognized me immediately. “Ah, Mrs. Dlamini,” she said softly, her eyes dropping. “You’ve come about Lihle, haven’t you?”
I nodded, barely holding myself together. “Please,” I said. “Tell me the truth.”
She hesitated, then sighed deeply. “That girl was only nineteen when she started with your husband. She told me she loved him, that he promised to take her away from this life. I warned her, but she said he was different.”
Nineteen. The word echoed in my ears like thunder. My husband — a grown man, a father — with a girl who was barely out of childhood. My stomach turned. I thanked her quietly and walked out into the hot Johannesburg afternoon, my head spinning.
As I stood by the taxi rank, I felt something strange — not anger, not pain, but clarity. I finally saw the truth: I had been protecting a man who no longer deserved my loyalty. Love had turned into fear, and fear had now turned into freedom.
That night, when Thabo came home, I didn’t wait for him to speak. I packed a small bag with my clothes and my children’s school uniforms. I didn’t know where we would go yet, but I knew we couldn’t stay. I looked at him one last time and said, “You’ve already broken this home, Thabo. I’m just leaving the ruins behind.”
And with that, I walked into the night, my heart pounding but strangely light — because sometimes, walking away is not weakness. It’s survival.
Have you ever stayed in something because fear whispered louder than truth? What finally gave you the courage to walk away?
To Be Continued....
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