Inherited Scars.

Paths Diverging Chapter 6

The morning air smelled of rain and earth, the streets of Nairobi glistening with puddles that reflected the sky. Ntalami walked briskly toward her small studio, a light backpack slung over one shoulder, the scent of jasmine in her hair. For the first time in months, she moved through the city feeling a quiet strength radiating from her chest rather than the constant weight of longing for someone else’s attention.

The studio, a bright space on the second floor of a renovated building, was already buzzing with life. Two assistants arranged displays of her latest crochet creations while a small camera crew prepared to film her process for a local feature on emerging African artists. Ntalami took a deep breath, letting the hum of activity fill her senses.

She had come a long way. Her therapy sessions had helped her untangle years of self-doubt. Her reflections on her parents’ love; or the lack thereof, had given her insight into why she had repeatedly returned to Duke’s toxicity. And now, with her brand growing, she was stepping into her own life rather than reacting to someone else’s chaos.

“Good morning, Ntalami!” Aisha called, bustling toward her with a clipboard. “The photographer wants to start with the shawl designs.”

Ntalami smiled, feeling the excitement of purpose rather than fear. She moved gracefully around her studio, showing the camera crew how she worked, how she wove colors inspired by sunsets, flowers, and city life. Every stitch seemed infused with her reclaimed energy, each loop a declaration of her independence.

Later, as she sipped tea with her grandmother on the balcony, she reflected on how far she had come. “It feels strange,” she said softly. “I used to think life would only have meaning if Duke loved me. Now… I feel like I’m building a life that belongs to me.”

Her grandmother smiled knowingly. “That is the gift of facing your own scars, child. When you choose yourself, you open a space for joy no one can take away.”

Meanwhile, Duke was navigating a very different cityscape, one of shadows, frustration, and regret.

He had lost Chloe, his job was on the brink of termination, and the late nights with whiskey and bars had begun to take their toll. The walls of his apartment felt tighter, the emptiness heavier. He looked at the photographs of himself and Ntalami on his dresser, the happy, carefree moments now frozen in time.

Guilt gnawed at him, sharper than any hangover. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he had been running not just from pain, but from the little boy inside, the boy who had watched his mother leave and had never been comforted.

Duke wandered through the city that evening, the neon lights of the clubs flickering in his eyes. He stopped at a quiet park bench, the night air cool against his skin. He thought of Ntalami, how she had grown, how she had healed while he continued to spiral. A lump formed in his throat, and for once he allowed himself to grieve.

He muttered into the dark: “I should have seen her. I should have loved her differently.”

It was a bitter and hollow realization, but it was real.

Back in her studio, Ntalami prepared for the feature interview. The journalist asked about her journey, the inspiration behind her designs, and her advice to young women trying to find themselves. Ntalami spoke with honesty:

“I think healing is a process of learning to choose yourself. For years, I ran toward love that hurt me because it felt familiar. But I’ve learned that true love begins within. We can’t rely on someone else to fix the cracks inside us, we have to repair ourselves first.”

Her words resonated not only with the journalist but with her growing audience. Comments on her social media began to pour in: “Your story gives me hope.” … “I see myself in your journey.” … “Thank you for sharing this, it’s exactly what I needed.”

Ntalami smiled. The validation no longer came from a partner, it came from herself and the community she was building.

Duke, meanwhile, reached a breaking point one rainy night. He had been drinking steadily, the bottle empty on the table beside him. The apartment was silent except for the occasional drip of water from a leaky faucet. His thoughts were loud and relentless.

He replayed his fights with Ntalami, the cruel words he had thrown, the nights he had hit her, the countless times he had promised to change and then failed. He thought of Chloe, who had left quietly after realizing he could not change.

For the first time, he did not run from the pain. He sat on the floor and allowed himself to feel it fully. The grief, the shame, the loneliness; it all came at once, a tidal wave.

Duke finally picked up his phone and searched for a therapist’s number. It was a shaky, hesitant act, but it was a start. He admitted to himself that he couldn’t do this alone; that the wounds of his childhood were driving him to destroy himself and anyone he loved.

The first call he made was terrifying. “I… I need help,” he whispered to a voice on the other end.

It was the first step toward confronting the mother wound he had buried for decades' the abandonment that had shaped every relationship, every action, every lie he told himself about strength and control.

Ntalami spent that same evening at a small rooftop gathering with friends. The city lights glittered beneath them, the music soft in the background. She laughed freely, a sound that had felt impossible just months ago.

Leo, the photographer, had come along. He admired her shawls, asked thoughtful questions, and listened with interest whenever she spoke. There was no rush, no pressure; just an ease she had never felt with Duke.

When Leo complimented her on her strength, her smile was quiet but full of recognition. She had earned it herself, after all. She had stitched it, woven it, lived it.

For the first time, she realized that her life was not defined by loss, by Duke, or even by her scars. It was defined by her choices, her conscious acts of courage and love for herself.

Duke’s journey would be harder. But the seed of change was planted. Therapy would not erase his mistakes, nor would it immediately heal the boy inside. But it gave him a path, a way to confront the trauma he had hidden, to learn how to love without destroying, to build instead of break.

He understood that the road would be long, painful, and humbling. But for the first time, he believed it was possible.

That night, Ntalami sat on her balcony, crochet hook in hand, the city sprawling below her like a tapestry of light. She paused, watching the street vendors packing up, the buses rumbling past, and the distant neon glow of downtown.

Her life was her own now, vibrant and uncertain in the best way. She no longer measured her worth by someone else’s love. She no longer craved chaos. She had reclaimed herself and her energy.

And somewhere, far across the city, Duke sat on his floor, tears mixing with rain that streaked the window. He was broken, yes, but he had begun the journey that might one day lead him to something resembling peace.

Paths diverging, yet both moving forward, each forced to confront their past to survive.

Ntalami whispered to herself, a quiet prayer: “May he find the healing he never gave me. And may I continue to rise.”

The city breathed around her, indifferent yet witness to their separate journeys. She could not change Duke, but she could live fully for herself.

And that was enough.