Inherited Scars.

The Fork in the Road Chapter 4

The days that followed were both heavy and liberating for Ntalami. Some mornings she woke up with tears staining her pillow, her chest aching for Duke’s presence. Other mornings she woke with lightness, as though her lungs had found a new way to breathe.

Grief and relief mingled in her body like oil and water, never fully blending, but teaching her that healing was not a straight road. It was a labyrinth. And that it required alot of patience and self compassion.

One Saturday, she found herself sitting in the waiting room of a therapist’s office. The beige walls, the faint smell of lavender oil diffused in the air, the soft hum of an air conditioner; it was all unfamiliar yet oddly comforting.

Dr. Achieng’, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a firm presence, welcomed her into the small office lined with bookshelves.And framed quotes for aesthetics decoration.

Ntalami’s voice shook as she began. “I don’t know why I keep…why I keep on choosing pain. I know he was hurting me. I know I was losing myself. But I couldn’t let go until now.”

The therapist leaned forward slightly. “You weren’t choosing pain. You were choosing what was familiar. And what is familiar often masquerades as love.”

The words struck something deep. Ntalami felt tears press against her eyelids, but for once, she didn’t swallow them back. She let them fall freely.

Over the following weeks, her sessions became her anchors. She began to name her patterns, to recognize how the child in her, scarred by her parents’ fights, kept reaching for men who replicated that chaos. She learned to reframe her worth, not through what she could endure, but through what she could allow herself to receive.

Outside therapy, she found herself crocheting again; not just bags, but scarves and shawls, pouring her emotions into every loop and stitch. Soon, her friends began asking for pieces, and before she realized it, she had created a small I*******m page to share her work. The comments from strangers warmed her: “So beautiful!” … “I’d love to order this!”

Her art, once a quiet pastime, was becoming a lifeline. A form of therapy in itself, and it was liberating.

Duke, meanwhile, was unraveling in silence.

The nights with Chloe burned hot, but the mornings were always cold. He would wake beside her, her perfume clinging to the sheets, and feel the gnawing emptiness in his chest. Chloe was tender, playful, fiery; but she wasn’t Ntalami. She didn’t carry his secrets with patience, didn’t weave him back together when he broke apart. He missed Ntalami but tried to surpress the feeling.

One night, after Chloe fell asleep, Duke scrolled through old photos on his phone. There was Ntalami, grinning with her crochet hook in hand, her hair falling across her face as she held up a half-finished bag. There she was again, laughing so hard her eyes had squeezed shut, her hand pressed against her chest as if to hold her heart in place.

He clenched his jaw and tossed the phone aside, but the image of her lingered behind his eyes.

To numb himself, he drank. More than usual. The bar became his second home, the bottle was now his only loyal companion. He told Chloe that it was work stress, but deep down he knew he was running, from guilt, from emptiness, from the little boy inside who still longed for a mother’s embrace.

Chloe noticed. One evening, as he stumbled through the door, she frowned. “Duke, this isn’t you. You’re drinking too much.”

“This is me, you either take it or leave it!” he snapped, pulling off his jacket. “You just don’t get it.”

“I’m trying to,” she said softly. “But you keep on shutting me out.”

He looked at her, at the concern in her eyes, and felt a pang of something he couldn’t name. But instead of reaching for her, he poured another glass of liqour.She couldn't do anything but just watch him empty the glass of alchohol.

Ntalami’s life began to bloom in unexpected ways.

She joined a women’s circle that met every month to share stories of resilience. At first, she was hesitant, sitting quietly while others spoke. But one evening, she finally opened up.

“I thought love meant suffering,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “Because that’s what I saw growing up. My parents fought so much, and I carried that into my relationships. But I’m learning that love doesn’t have to break me.”

The women listened with tears, nods, and soft affirmations. One of them reached across the circle and squeezed her hand.

That night, walking home, Ntalami felt a warmth she hadn’t known in years; a sense of belonging that wasn’t tied to romance, but to community.

Her friendships deepened too. She spent more time with people who uplifted her, who laughed with her without conditions. Slowly, the empty spaces Duke had occupied were being filled, not with substitutes, but with authentic connections.

But healing wasn’t without temptation. One evening, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

“I miss you.I miss what we had .Baby ,can we talk?”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t need to guess, it was Duke.

Her fingers hovered over the screen. For a brief moment, old longing whispered: Maybe he’s changed. Maybe this time will be different. 

But then she remembered the tears, the bruises no one could see, the way her heart had bent until it nearly broke.Thats how he always came back, promising change and her heart always took him back ,believing him everytime.

She put the phone down, and closed her eyes for a moment.

Instead of replying, she opened her journal and wrote: Missing someone doesn’t mean they belong in your life. Pain is not proof of love.

When she closed the notebook, once again, she felt her strength return.

Duke spiraled further. Chloe, though loyal, began to tire of his unpredictability. Some nights he was affectionate, even tender, but other nights he was distant, lost in shadows she couldn’t penetrate.

One evening, after an argument, she said what he feared most: “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Silence was confession enough.

Chloe left that night, slamming the door behind her. Duke sat in the wreckage of his apartment, the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, the silence suffocating him. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he had lost not just Ntalami, but himself.

Meanwhile, Ntalami stood on a different shore.

One Sunday, she visited her grandmother. They sat under the shade of an old mango tree, sipping tea as the afternoon sun filtered through the leaves.

Her grandmother studied her carefully. “There’s a light in your eyes I haven’t seen in a long time,” she said.

Ntalami smiled. “I think I’m finally learning to love myself.”

Her grandmother reached out and touched her hand. “That is the love that will never leave you.”

In that moment, Ntalami felt it, the quiet power of choosing herself. Not in defiance of Duke, not even in anger at her past, but in reverence to the woman she was becoming.

She no longer wanted to go back. The path ahead was uncertain, but it was hers.