The spring of hope .

The Spring of Hope

My past was catching up with me.

I sat by the fireplace, its embers glowing faintly like the hope I once carried in my heart. Outside, rain tapped softly on the roof, echoing the chaos in my chest. My fingers trembled as I clutched a half-empty mug of tea. Bitter, just like my memories.

I had thought that moving to a new town, marrying a good man, and putting the past behind me would somehow erase the pain—but the ghosts of my past refused to stay buried. They clawed their way back to the surface, haunting me with every quiet moment, every silence too heavy to ignore.

Eighteen years ago, I lived in a sleepy town called Sotik. Life back then was simple. We were poor, but there was peace. Mornings were filled with birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The air smelled of soil and rain, and the sky felt close enough to touch. I loved that town—until it turned against me.

I was nineteen when it happened. I had stayed late at a church choir practice. On my way home, I was attacked. I don’t remember his face. I remember his smell—sweat and tobacco—and the weight of fear crushing my chest. The pain. The shame. The silence afterward. When I told my neighbors, they called me a liar. When I told the church elders, they asked what I was wearing. When I told my friends, they vanished.

Only my mother stayed.

“You don’t have to keep it,” she told me gently when the doctor confirmed I was pregnant. Her eyes searched mine, as if looking for the little girl I used to be. “You can start over.”

But I couldn’t bring myself to abort the baby. I didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was hope. Or guilt. Maybe both. When my daughter was born, I named her Moraa. She had my nose and the quietest cry. I stared at her for hours. She was beautiful—a painful miracle.

But every time I held her, I heard his laughter, saw his shadow. I hated that. I hated myself.

Then came Kenneth and his wife. A well-off couple from Nairobi who couldn’t conceive. They heard my story from a mutual friend. One afternoon, they came to our home with a brown envelope filled with 300,000 shillings. Kenneth’s wife stroked Moraa’s cheek as if already claiming her.

I was desperate. My shop had failed. My mother’s crops had withered in a season of drought. My spirit was already broken. That money could help us both. So I gave her up. No lawyers. No adoption. No goodbye.

When the gate closed behind them, I stood frozen. My breasts ached from milk, and my arms felt unnaturally light. My mother cried. I didn’t.

“I did what I had to do,” I whispered.

“You gave her away like she was nothing,” my mother spat.

That was the day our bond began to crumble.

I moved to Eldoret with some of the money and opened a small clothing shop near the market. I told myself every day that I had done the right thing. But at night, when the world grew quiet, my heart would whisper otherwise.

I was twenty-three when I met Eileen.

Yes, Eileen—a name usually given to women. He hated it at first, but I loved it. It suited him. Gentle, poetic, soft yet strong. He was a carpenter with hands like magic and a heart that made me believe in love again. He didn’t ask about my past, and I didn’t offer it. We married after six months. I wore a second-hand dress and cried when he kissed my hand before placing the ring on it.

For the first few years, our life was peaceful. I would sew clothes during the day, and he’d craft furniture from old wood. We made enough to survive. We danced in the kitchen. We prayed together. We built dreams.

But dreams can wither too.

Years passed. No children. Month after month, the disappointment became a third member of our marriage. We tried everything—doctors, herbs, prayers, fasts. Nothing. Slowly, Eileen changed. He started coming home late, smelling of alcohol and perfume. I said nothing at first. Then I began to scream. We both did. Our once tender love soured into bitterness and blame.

Still, I stayed.

I loved him. Maybe too much.

Fifteen years into our marriage, I felt like an empty vessel. My womb was a graveyard for unborn dreams. I stopped smiling. I avoided mirrors. I longed to run back home, to my mother’s arms, even though we hadn’t spoken in over a decade.

So one day, I did.

I boarded a matatu and travelled to Sotik, unsure of what would happen. When I arrived at her doorstep, she didn’t ask why I came. She opened her arms and held me like she used to when I was a child who scraped her knee.

“My child, stand up,” she whispered.

And I wept.

We talked for hours. About Moraa. About the years we lost. About the silence that had become a wall between us.

A few days later, Eileen called.

“I’m at your shop. They said you travelled?”

“I’m at my mother’s,” I said. Silence followed.

“I thought you two never got along?”

“She needs to see you,” I said softly.

He came.

And for the first time, my mother welcomed him like a son. We prayed together. We asked God for mercy. We made peace—with each other and with ourselves. We returned to Eldoret feeling reborn, like spring after a long winter.

Then the phone rang one quiet evening.

My mother’s voice was frantic. “Emily… Kenneth. He moved to the next village. I saw them… I saw her.”

My heart clenched. “Saw who?”

“Moraa. Your daughter. She’s… she’s grown.”

The room spun. My past had not only caught up—it was staring me in the face.

I called Eileen. When he arrived, he found me curled on the floor by the fireplace, crying like a child.

“What’s wrong?”

“I gave her away,” I choked. “I sold her. I didn’t know what else to do.”

He went quiet.

Then, anger flashed across his face. “You gave away your child—for money? We spent 15 years begging God, and you already had one?”

“I was raped,” I whispered. “I was nineteen. I didn’t want to live, let alone raise a baby. I was drowning, Eileen.”

He said nothing. But early the next morning, he woke me with gentle hands.

“We’re going to your mother’s. We’re going to find Moraa.”

We found Kenneth’s home. It was large, freshly painted, with flower beds and a tall gate. I felt sick. The past was here. Flesh and blood.

The gatekeeper let us in. My knees buckled as we approached the house.

Then, I saw her.

Moraa.

She was beautiful—tall, graceful, with eyes that mirrored mine. I collapsed to my knees, sobbing.

“Who is this woman?” she asked. “Daddy?”

Kenneth hesitated.

“She’s your mother,” my mother said, stepping in. “She gave birth to you. Kenneth and his wife took you without proper adoption. They paid her. It wasn’t right.”

“What? No… My name is Stacy. I don’t know these people!”

Kenneth’s wife snapped, “She gave her up willingly. We didn’t steal her.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Moraa—Stacy—whispered. Her voice cracked. “I deserved to know.”

The room exploded with voices. Pain. Confusion. Accusations.

And then—everything went dark.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

“You’ve been unconscious for a day,” my mother said gently, wiping my forehead.

Eileen took my hand, his eyes red.

“I thought I’d lost you. And our babies.”

I froze. “What do you mean… babies?”

He smiled, trembling. “We’re 12 weeks pregnant. With twins.”

Tears gushed from my eyes. After 15 years of loss, my womb had bloomed again.

Then—the door creaked open.

She stepped in. Moraa.

“Hi Mom. How are you?”

My heart shattered and healed in a single moment. She called me Mom.

I reached out to her, trembling. She hesitated, then rushed into my arms.

We cried together.

Outside the hospital window, the rain had stopped. The clouds parted, revealing sunlight on the horizon.

The grass was green again.