Tọlá Belva

Chapter 1: Waking in the Rubble

The alarm shattered the silence at 4:00 a.m, its sound as grating as the heaviness in her chest. She slapped it off and lay still, staring at the ceiling. The shadows from the blinds stretched across the room like ominous fingers. Another day.

Rolling out of bed, she glanced at the small forms of her children, their faces soft in sleep. They were her reason for getting up every morning. But sometimes, even that wasn’t enough to drown the ache.

The shower was cold—it always was. She couldn’t afford to fix the water heater. She avoided the mirror, unwilling to meet her reflection. It wasn’t vanity; it was survival. She didn’t want to see the woman she had become: hollow eyes, tired skin, and shoulders that sagged under invisible weight.

Depression wasn’t new to her. It had started in childhood, a slow poison that her mother’s cutting words stirred into her every meal. “You’ll never be good enough. Weaklings like you don’t survive.” Her mother’s voice had echoed through the years, growing louder when her husband’s fists and words picked up where her mother had left off.

She thought leaving the marriage would fix things, but the damage was done.

By the time the kids woke up, she had breakfast ready. Toast and scrambled eggs. Simple but filling. “Eat up,” she said, forcing a smile as her daughter reached for the ketchup.

“Mama, will we get to play at the park after school?”

“Maybe this weekend,” she replied, though her stomach twisted at the lie. Bus fare to the park was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Walls

The day felt different. Not lighter—never lighter—but purposeful. She’d found a website that promised free counseling, and the idea of unburdening herself, even for an hour, filled her with cautious hope.

Dropping off her kids at school, she clutched the printed address and boarded the Metro bus. The seats were sticky with the residue of countless passengers, but she didn’t care. She stared out the window, clutching her bag.

Arriving early, she sat in the waiting room, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of her sweater. The receptionist called her to the desk. “You’ll need to pay $175 upfront,” the woman said.

Her breath caught. “But it said online that counseling was free…”

The receptionist shook her head, her expression unyielding. “That’s only for Medicare patients. You’d need to pay out of pocket.”

Tears welled up, but she fought them back. “Please… I can’t afford that. I just need someone to talk to.”

The receptionist’s expression softened, but only slightly. “I’m sorry. That’s the policy.”

She left the building feeling smaller than when she arrived. On the bus ride home, she tucked her face into her sweater and sobbed silently. She’d been wrong to hope.

Chapter 3: The Cracks in the Tower

That night, she sat alone in the dim light of the living room. The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the walls. Her thoughts were loud, relentless.

She stared at her children’s school drawings pinned to the fridge, their cheerful colors mocking her gray existence. Why did she feel so broken when they needed her whole? Her mind drifted to darker places—the unyielding cycle of her pain.

The silence broke with a sob, loud and raw. She buried her face in her hands, but the tears kept coming. Images of her past swirled in her mind: her mother’s dismissive gaze, her husband’s raised fist, the night she left him clutching her babies, terrified and unsure of what came next.

Hours passed before she could move. She crawled into bed, not bothering to undress, and lay staring at the ceiling. But as she closed her eyes, something shifted—a faint memory of her neighbor’s words about the community support group resurfaced. “We meet every Wednesday at 10 a.m. It’s free, and you’ll meet people who’ve been through similar things.”

Morning came with its usual chaos: breakfast, school drop-offs, and a bus ride. She decided today she’d try. Even if she just sat in the back of the room and listened, it was better than sinking further into despair.

The community center was a modest building, its walls lined with inspirational posters and flyers for free services. She hesitated at the door of the meeting room, her hands trembling. Inside, a circle of people sat, their faces a mix of hope, exhaustion, and understanding.

“Come in,” said a warm voice. The group leader, a woman in her sixties, gestured to an empty chair. She sat down, her heart pounding.

When her turn came, she fumbled with her words. “I… I don’t even know where to start,” she said, her voice breaking. “I feel like I’m falling apart, and I can’t catch myself. I’m scared, all the time.”

The group listened, nodding. The leader spoke softly. “You’re not alone. That fear, that feeling of falling—it’s something we all understand. But you’re here, and that’s a step forward.”

Chapter 4: A Glimmer of Light

Over the next few weeks, the support group became her anchor. Every Wednesday, she joined the circle, sharing more of her story with each session. She talked about her marriage, how it started with love and promises, only to unravel into a nightmare of control and violence.

“I stayed because I thought I had to,” she confessed one day. “For the kids. But leaving didn’t make it easier. I’m still fighting every day just to keep us afloat.”

The group leader encouraged her to set small goals. “Healing isn’t about fixing everything at once. Start with what feels possible.”

Taking those words to heart, she began searching for part-time work. She walked into restaurant after restaurant, leaving her resume and praying for a callback.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling day of rejections, her phone buzzed. It was a manager from a local restaurant offering her a trial shift.

The job was hard. She worked long hours on her feet, juggling orders and cleaning tables, but the paycheck—small as it was—gave her a sense of accomplishment. She could finally buy small treats for her children without guilt, like ice cream after school or a new pack of crayons.

In her sessions, she started to notice the small victories. “I made it through a full week without crying myself to sleep,” she told the group with a shy smile. “It’s not much, but it feels like progress.”

Chapter 5: Facing the Shadows

Despite her progress, the shadows of her past continued to linger. One night, as she folded laundry, her son asked, “Mama, why don’t we see Grandma anymore?”

She froze, her hands gripping the tiny shirt she’d been folding. How could she explain the years of emotional abuse, the way her mother’s words had left scars invisible to the eye?

The question stayed with her. That week, she told the support group about her mother. “I’ve been running from her for years,” she admitted. “But I think it’s time I stopped.”

With their encouragement, she mustered the courage to visit her mother. She rehearsed what she would say, though the thought of standing up to the woman who had always loomed over her felt impossible.

When she knocked on the familiar door, her heart raced. Her mother opened it, looking surprised but not unkind.

They sat in awkward silence before she began. “I need to say this, even if you don’t understand. You hurt me. For years, I’ve carried your words with me, and they’ve shaped so much of who I am. But I can’t let them control me anymore.”

Her mother’s response was defensive at first, but as the conversation continued, something shifted. Though she didn’t apologize, her mother listened. And for the first time, she felt heard—not fully, but enough to begin letting go of the bitterness she’d carried for so long.

Walking away from that conversation, she felt lighter. It wasn’t closure, but it was a start.

Chapter 6: Building a New Tower

Months passed. She balanced work, parenting, and her weekly support group. Slowly, the chaos of her life began to feel manageable.

She signed up for free online courses, learning new skills that might lead to better job opportunities. She even started journaling, pouring out her thoughts onto the page instead of letting them fester in her mind.

One evening, her daughter handed her a drawing. It was of their family, standing in front of a tall, colorful tower. “It’s us,” her daughter explained. “And this is the tower we live in now. It’s really strong.”

She blinked back tears, marveling at how her child could capture something she hadn’t yet put into words. Their tower wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy, built on a foundation of love, resilience, and hope.

As she tucked her children into bed that night, her daughter asked, “Mama, are you happy now?”

She thought for a moment, then kissed her daughter’s forehead. “I’m getting there,” she said softly.

And for the first time, she truly believed it.