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After Struggling And Training Her Boyfriend In School, He Left Her And Married A Rich Girl But#story | Igbotic folktales and stories | YouTubeToText
YouTube Transcript: After Struggling And Training Her Boyfriend In School, He Left Her And Married A Rich Girl But#story
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Video Summary
Summary
Core Theme
This story is about Meera, a young woman who makes immense sacrifices to support her childhood love, David, in pursuing his education, only to be betrayed by his ambition and societal pressures, ultimately leading her to discover her own strength and resilience.
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The morning sun had barely risen when
Meera stepped out of the small mud house
she shared with her father. The air was
cold and deuce still rested gently on
the grass. Her father, weak and coughing
lightly, watched her from the doorway.
Mirror, he called softly, his voice
trembling with age and illness. She
paused and looked back at him. You don't
have to go this early. Rest a little.
Mera forced a small smile, though her
heart felt heavy. If I rest, there will
be nothing to eat today," she said
quietly. Her father lowered his eyes. He
hated that she had to suffer this way.
But life had not given them many
choices. Since Myra's mother died,
everything fell on her shoulders. The
cooking, the cleaning, and most
importantly, the firewood selling that
kept their home running. She tied a worn
scarf around her head and picked up the
small axe leaning against the wall. Then
she headed into the forest path that led
to the bush. The ground was still wet
and her slippers soaked quickly, but she
kept walking. Mera was not just working
for herself and her father. She was
working for love. For David, David was
the boy she had grown up with, the boy
she laughed with at the stream, the boy
who once held her hands and told her she
was his future. He had big dreams to
study at the university and become an
engineer. But dreams cost money, money
neither of them had. Yet Meera believed
in him. She believed in his mind, his
heart, his future. So she made a promise
to him one evening two years ago. I will
find a way. You will go to school. I
will support you even if I have to sell
firewood every day. And she had done
exactly that. She reached the forest and
began to gather sticks and logs. She
cut, broke, tied, and lifted until the
bundle was almost heavier than she was.
Her hands had scars, deep, rough,
painful, but she never complained. Love
made her strong. When she walked back
through the village carrying the heavy
load on her head, people watched her
with pity. That girl is wasting herself,
one woman whispered. She should find
someone who can help her, not when she
is helping, another said. But Meera
didn't listen. Her heart was stubborn
and loyal. David was her choice. By
noon, she was at the roadside market
arranging the firewood in small bundles.
Sweat rolled down her face and her dress
clung to her skin. She waved at passers
by trying to draw customers without
sounding desperate. Some days she sold
well. Some days she returned home with
almost nothing. But every month, no
matter how hard or slow business had
been, she made sure to send money to
David, who was now far away in the city
studying. He called sometimes, though
not as often as before. When he did, his
voice sounded tired, distracted,
distant. Mera, school is hard. I have
many things to do. I can't talk long.
But Mera always smiled through the
phone, never complaining. It's all
right. I just wanted to hear your voice.
Study well. Remember what we are working
for, what she was working for. David
always said thank you. But his thank you
started sounding different with time.
Less warm, less full, almost like a
duty. Still Meera believed, still Meera
hoped, still Mera loved. She prayed
every night that her sacrifice would not
be in vain. That one day she would stand
beside David in a better life, a life
they both dreamed of. But fate was
already writing a different story. A
story she could not yet see. A story
that would break her and then rebuild
her stronger than anyone expected. The
days passed slowly, yet the months
seemed to fly. Every morning, Mera woke
up before the sun rose. She fetched
water, made her father's tea, and headed
to the bush to cut wood. Her life was
routine, but it had purpose, David. One
quiet evening, Mera sat outside her
house with her father. The sky was
painted in soft shades of orange and
pink, and the evening breeze carried the
smell of cooking fires from neighboring
homes. Her father glanced at her hands.
Rough, blistered, and bruised. "You work
too hard," he murmured. Meera smiled
lightly. "I'm used to it. But you
shouldn't be used to suffering," he
replied, his tone filled with sorrow. "A
young woman should be cherished, cared for.
for.
Meera looked away. She didn't want him
to see the sudden sting in her eyes. "I
chose this," she said softly. "The truth
was she didn't know any other life. Love
had made her sacrifice feel like
purpose." A few minutes later, her phone
buzzed. "David was calling." She stood
quickly and walked behind the house
where it was quiet. "David," she said,
her voice already filled with warmth.
"Yes, Meera, I'm fine. I received the
money. Thank you. His tone was flat,
rushed, like he had somewhere else to
be. Myra smile weakened, but she worked
to keep her voice steady. I'm glad it
helped. How are your studies? Stressful?
He sighed. Here, everything is
different. People think fast. Everyone
is competing. I don't even sleep much.
I'm proud of you, she said. There was
silence, not the comfortable kind they
once shared. A distant, unfamiliar
silence. Mera, I want to tell you
something," David said finally. Her
heart paused. "I've been thinking. When
I finish school and get a good job,
everything will change." "For both of
us." Mirror released a breath. She
didn't realize she was holding. "Yes,"
she whispered, smiling again. "We'll get
married," David continued. "We'll leave
the village. I'll buy you a better
house. I'll take care of your father,
too. I promise." A tear slipped down
Myra's cheek. a tear of hope, of love,
of relief. "Just don't give up on me,"
he added. "I need you to keep
believing." "I will," she said, her
voice gentle and sure. "I'll always
believe in you." They ended the call.
Mera pressed the phone to her chest and
closed her eyes. That night, she slept
with a smile. But life in the city was
changing David in ways Meera did not yet
see. In the university, David was
discovering a world he had never
imagined. A world of bright lights, good
food, expensive phones, stylish clothes,
and confident people who walked like
they own the earth. He felt small at
first, but soon he started wanting to
fit in. He avoided taking pictures with
the old shoes Mera bought him. He
stopped mentioning the village when
friends talked about their homes. He
never spoke about the girl selling
firewood who sent him money every month.
And then there was Sandra. She was from
a well-known family in the city. Her
father had businesses. Her mother drove
a fancy car. Sandra had soft hands and
perfume that smelled like flowers. She
was everything the city admired. David
felt drawn to her, or rather drawn to
the life around her. It t first it was
friendship. Then it became late night
conversations. Then it became something
else. Meera did not know any of this.
She only knew the promise she held
close. A promise she repeated to herself
whenever her hands achd. Whenever she
carried firewood under the burning sun,
whenever hunger sat heavy in her
stomach. One day, all this will be worth
it. But life was preparing a lesson for
her, one that would break her heart wide
open. The hermitan season came, bringing
dry winds and dust that settled on
rooftops and on people's skin. The days
felt longer and the evenings colder. Yet
Myra's routine remained the same. She
woke before dawn, worked all day, and
returned home exhausted. But she never
complained because she believed in a
future she could not yet touch. One late
afternoon, after a long day at the
market, Mera sat behind her house,
washing her feet in a small basin. Her
body achd everywhere, shoulders, back,
wrists, but her mind was somewhere far
away. Her father watched her silently
from the doorway. You have not heard
from David today, he said gently. Mera
nodded. He must be busy. Her father
sighed deeply, leaning on his walking
stick. Mirror, sometimes when people
move forward in life, they forget where
they came from. She paused, her fingers
gripping the basin rim. David is not
like that, she said quietly. Her father
didn't argue. He simply watched her with
eyes that had seen more of the world
than hers had. He wanted to protect her,
but some lessons he knew. Life teaches
on its own. That night, Meera tried to
call David. The phone rang once, twice,
then four times. No answer. She waited.
Minutes became hours. Later, he sent a
text. Sorry. In class, I'll call later.
But he didn't call. And that became the
new pattern. Days turned into weeks
where Mirror would hear only small
pieces of him. rushed messages, tired
tones, excuses that cut softly like
paper. Yet, she held on. She said
nothing. She didn't want to be a burden.
She didn't want to be the reason he felt
pressure. Love made her patient.
Meanwhile, in the city, David was
sitting in the university cafeteria,
laughing with Sandra and some of her
friends. Sandra looked elegant even when
tired, her nails polished, her smile
warm and confident. David admired the
way she spoke, the way she moved, the
way she commanded attention without
trying. When her friends asked David
about his life before school, he avoided
details. He changed topics. He laughed
things off. Sandra believed David came
from a modest background. Not poverty,
not struggle, not firewood. David never
corrected her. One evening, Sandra
leaned her head on his shoulder and
said, "I'm glad I met you. You're
different. You carry yourself with
dignity, not desperation. David felt a
strange pride swell in him. Desperation.
He knew who that word pointed to, yet he
said nothing. He simply allowed silence
to agree. Back in the village, life
continued in slow, aching rhythm. Every
evening, Meera sat under the mango tree
near their house and looked toward the
dusty road that led out of the village.
She imagined David walking back home
with his bag, smiling at her, telling
her that school was over and life was
about to change. Sometimes she spoke
softly to herself like a prayer. Just a
little longer. He is coming back. He
will remember. Her father would pass by,
pause, look at her, then continue
walking saying nothing because some
heartbreaks begin quietly long before
anyone realizes they have started. One
day, Mera went to the mobile money agent
to send David his monthly school
allowance. It was smaller this month.
Business had been slow, but she sent it
anyway. "Done," the agent said, handing
her the receipt. Meera smiled, tired,
but hopeful. "That night," David finally
called. Meera, "You didn't have to send
anything this month," he said. But his
voice did not sound grateful. It sounded
irritated. Myra's smile faded, though
she didn't let her voice shake. I know
things are hard for you. I just wanted
to help. There was a long silence on the
phone. Mirror, David finally said, just
don't stress yourself too much. And for
the first time, there was no warmth, no
promise, no future in his words, just
distance. So quiet that even Myra's
heart heard it. But hope is a stubborn
thing. and love when true and pure
refuses to die quickly. Meera held the
phone to her chest. She whispered to the
night, "I will not give up." She didn't
know that the person she was holding on
to was already letting go. Month after
month, the distance between Meera and
David widened slowly, quietly, the way
grass grows. It does not happen in a
single day. But one morning, you look
and the ground is no longer the same.
Yet Meera did not see it that way. She
explained things to herself. He must be
busy. He must be tired. He must be
stressed. Love teaches a person how to
defend the one they love. Even when the
world is pointing at the truth. One late
afternoon, Meera sat at the market, her
firewood neatly arranged in small
bundles. The sun was hot, but the wind
was cool. Vendors called out prices.
Children ran past laughing and Mera sat
quietly watching the road lost in her
thoughts. A woman selling vegetables
nearby sighed deeply. Mera, she said.
When was the last time that boy came
home? Mera looked up gently. David, he
is studying. He will graduate soon. The
woman nodded slowly, choosing her words
with care. H just make sure you are not
holding on to someone who is not holding
on to you. Mera smiled politely, but
inside something shifted. A soft, small
ache. "He loves me," she replied simply.
"The woman didn't argue. She just nodded
and returned to sorting tomatoes, but
Myra's heart felt heavier than before."
That evening, Mera prepared dinner for
her father. They ate quietly, listening
to the crickets outside. The sky was
dark and the air cool. Her father
watched her as she washed the plates.
mirror," he began gently. "If life gives
you a sign, don't close your eyes. She
knew what he meant. She felt it, but she
wasn't ready to accept it." "I just need
to hold on a little longer," she
whispered. Her father sighed, not out of
frustration, but out of helpless love.
Meanwhile, in the city, David had
changed in ways Mera would not
recognize. His clothes were new, his
accent had softened, his shoulders were
straighter, his steps more confident.
Sandra stood beside him in everything.
Dinners, outings, lectures, they moved
like two people who fit into the same
world. One evening, as they sat under
the school pavilion, Sandra leaned close
and asked softly, "David, are you seeing
someone?" He hesitated just for a moment
before shaking his head. No, there's no
one. And that was the first time David
lied with ease. He didn't feel guilt,
just relief, like he had cut off a piece
of his past that no longer matched his
future. Back in the village, the seasons
changed again. Rain came heavy and loud
on the roof. The firewood became harder
to cut and harder to sell. Mera
sometimes worked with wet clothes,
sometimes with an empty stomach. But she
kept sending money. She kept waiting.
She kept believing. And then one
morning, her phone rang. "David." Her
hands shook slightly when she picked up.
"Mera," he said, sounding lighter than
he had in months. "I have good news. I'm
graduating next week." Meera felt warmth
rush through her chest. Her eyes
immediately filled with tears, not of
sadness, but joy. "David, I'm so happy
for you," she whispered. He continued,
"I want you to come. I want you to be
there. Meera covered her mouth to stop
herself from crying out. Yes, I'll come.
Of course, I'll come. She didn't see
David's hesitation. Brief, quiet before
he replied. All right, see you then.
They ended the call. Meera sat down
slowly on the doorstep, her breath
trembling. Her father came out and saw
her eyes shining. "What happened?" he
asked softly. "He finished," she
whispered. He is graduating and he wants
me to come. Her father looked at her for
a long moment. He smiled but it was a
sad smile. Then go, he said. Go and see
what your love has built. Mera nodded,
her heart full. She had no idea that the
journey ahead would not lead her to
celebration, but to the truth. A truth
she had been avoiding for so long. The
evening before Meera was to travel, she
could hardly sleep. She lay on her small
mat, staring up at the ceiling,
listening to the insects singing
outside, she imagined the day ahead.
David in a graduation gown, smiling proudly,
proudly,
reaching for her first, calling her name
in front of everyone. This is the girl
who made everything possible. Her heart
swelled at the thought. She had waited
years for that moment. She believed it
was finally time for her joy. She woke
up before dawn and heated water for her
father's bath. She laid out the only
decent dress she owned. It was not new.
She had worn it to church many times,
but she washed it carefully and ironed
it with a warm metal plate, making sure
every fold was smooth. Her father
watched her quietly. "You look
beautiful," he said. Meera smiled softly
and knelt so he could bless her journey.
He placed his shaking hands on her head.
"May your heart not meet what will break
it," he murmured. Meera hugged him. His
blessing felt heavy, almost like a
warning, but she did not dwell on it.
Her heart was full of hope. The road to
the city was long and dusty. Mera sat in
the back of the bus, squeezed between
two traders carrying baskets. The wind
blew in through the open windows,
filling her eyes with dust, but she
didn't mind. She kept her small bag
close and held her phone in her hand the
entire journey, waiting for David to
call. She watched the city grow closer.
First the tall buildings, then the busy
roads, the loud voices, the cars that
moved faster than she was used to.
Everything felt bigger, louder,
brighter. She whispered to herself. Soon
I will see him soon. When the bus
stopped, she stepped down slowly, unsure
where to go. The city moved like a
river, fast and without waiting for
anyone. Meera stood still for a moment,
overwhelmed. She dialed David's number.
It rang once, twice, three times. He did
not pick. She waited, her fingers
tightening around the phone. She tried
again. This time, he answered. Hello.
His voice sounded distracted. David, I'm
here. I've reached the city park. Oh,
okay. I'm at the school hall. The
program is starting. Just find a bike
and come straight. Ask them for Bright
Future University. Everyone knows it.
His words were quick. No excitement, no
warmth. But Meera did not think too
deeply. She only nodded even though he
could not see her. Okay, I'm coming. She
found a motorcycle rider and told him
the name of the university. The ride was
rough, noisy, and fast. The wind tore at
her hair and her dress, but she held on
tightly. She imagined David waiting for
her at the gate, but when she arrived,
he was not there. Students filled the
compound, laughing, hugging, taking
pictures, wearing gowns and caps,
celebrating the end of struggle. Mera
felt small among them. She walked
slowly, searching. Then she saw him
across the wide courtyard, wearing his
graduation gown, smiling brightly, but
not at her. He was standing beside a
girl, beautiful, well-dressed,
confident. Her hair was styled in long
braids. She wore an expensive dress and
jewelry that shone in the sun. They were
holding hands. David looked different
beside her, polished, proud, sure of
himself. Meera stopped walking. Her feet
felt rooted. Her heartbeat echoed in her
ears. For a moment, she just watched,
waiting for him to look up and see her,
to smile, to run to her, to say you
came. But he didn't see her. Or maybe he
saw her and pretended not to. Myra's
fingers loosened on her bag. Her throat
tightened. She took a slow breath,
steadying herself. Then she stepped
forward. One step, another toward the
truth. A truth she prayed would not
break her. Mera walked slowly across the
courtyard. Her steps small and careful
like someone afraid the ground might
disappear beneath her feet. Her dress
fluttered slightly in the breeze. She
could feel people brushing past her,
laughing, celebrating, taking pictures,
a world full of noise. But inside her,
everything was quiet. She stopped a few
steps away from David. He noticed her.
Then his smile froze. His eyes changed.
Not surprised, not happy, not proud, but
uneasy, as if her presence was a
problem. "Mirrora," he said, his voice
low, almost cautious. Meera smiled, a
soft, hopeful smile that trembled. "I
came," she said. "Just like you asked."
David nodded stiffly. He cleared his
throat and shifted slightly, creating a
small space, not to welcome her in, but
to make sure she stayed out of the
circle. The girl beside him looked at
Meera curiously. David placed his arm
lightly around the girl's waist, a
gesture that was casual but full of
meaning. "Mirror," he said, "this is
Sandra." Mera felt it, the floor beneath
her heart tilting. Sandra smiled
politely. It was a soft, gentle smile,
the kind one gives a stranger in
passing. "Hello," she said kindly.
"David has told me something about you."
Mera swallowed something. Not
everything, not who she was to him. Not
the nights they stayed awake talking
about the future. Not the promises, not
the years, not the sacrifices, just
something. Meera nodded. Hello, she
replied quietly. There was a pause,
long, uncomfortable,
heavy like thick smoke that has nowhere
to escape. Sandra leaned closer to David
and said softly, "We should take more
pictures before the photographer
leaves." David nodded eagerly. "Too
eagerly." "Right, right," he said. He
didn't look at mirror. "Not once. He
didn't ask how she came. He didn't
notice the dust on her shoes from the
long journey. He didn't ask if she had
eaten. He didn't see the way her hands
were shaking. Sandra began walking ahead
to join her friends. David turned to
Meera and for the first time she saw
fear in his eyes. Not fear of hurting
her, but fear of being seen with her. He
spoke quickly like someone trying to
escape. Mirror, look. I didn't expect
you to arrive this early. Things are a
bit complicated. I'll explain later.
Just just wait somewhere. I'll come and
meet you. Wait. Myra's eyes lifted to
his. You want me to wait? She whispered.
David avoided her eyes. Just for now,
please. She swallowed, the pain rising
slowly, quietly like water filling a
room. She nodded once. "Okay." She
stepped back. David exhaled, relieved.
Relieved she did not make a scene. He
walked away. He joined Sandra. He
laughed. He posed for pictures. He held
her waist again. He fit into that world
easily, naturally. Mera watched. Not
with anger. Not yet. Just disbelief. She
walked to a small bench under a tree
away from the crowd. She sat down, her
hands folded tightly in her lap, her
heart beating in painful hollow thumps.
She whispered to herself so quietly the
wind almost took the words away. I just
need to wait. He said he would explain.
He will come. But the truth was already
unfolding in front of her. It was in the
pictures he took, in the laughter he
shared, in the way he never once looked
toward the tree where she sat. It was
happening slowly but clearly. She was
watching him walk away in real time. Yet
love, love can be so painfully loyal. So
she stayed. She waited under the shade
of a tree at the edge of a celebration
that did not belong to her. And the day
went on. The sun moved. The ceremony
ended. People began leaving. And still
David did not come. The courtyard slowly
emptied as the graduation celebration
came to an end. The sun was beginning to
set, casting long shadows across the
compound. Students were leaving with
their families, their laughter echoing
faintly like distant bells. Meera was
still sitting under the tree, her hands
clasped together tightly to stop them
from shaking. She had been waiting for
hours quietly just like he asked. She
watched the crowd thin, watched people
hug, watched parents beam proudly at
their children, and then she saw David
walking toward her. But he was not
alone. Sandra was with him, still
holding his arm. They stopped in front
of mirror. David took a quiet breath as
though preparing himself. Mirror, he
began. I should have said this earlier.
I didn't want it to come out this way.
But Sandra is my fiance. The word fiance
did not land all at once. It came
slowly, like a knife sliding in before
the pain arrives. Meera felt the world
become blurry for a moment. Her lips
parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Sandra looked at her kindly but without
understanding because she did not know
who Meera was. She did not know the
years, the sacrifices, the love. Fiance,
Mera repeated, her voice barely above a
whisper. David nodded avoiding her eyes.
Meera took a small step forward. David,
she said softly. I cut wood with my own
hands to send you to school. I walked
under the sun. I carried loads heavier
than my body. I didn't eat some days. I
believed in you when no one did. I I
gave everything for you. Her voice broke
on the last word. A tear slid down slow
and warm, carving a path through the
dust on her face. David's jaw tightened,
not in sorrow, but in discomfort, in
shame. And shame often turns itself into
coldness. Mirror, he said, his tone
changing. I didn't force you to do any
of that. I never asked you to sacrifice
yourself for me. You did what you wanted
to do. And now my life is moving in a
different direction. Mera blinked slowly
as if absorbing a blow. So it had all
come to this. Her love was not
remembered as love. It was remembered as
a choice he did not owe anything for.
Sandra's expression changed. Confused,
unsettled, now realizing something
deeper existed here, something she
hadn't been told. But she remained
silent. Myra's voice trembled now. So
all this time I was just holding on to
myself. David looked away. I'm sorry,
Meera, but I can't go back. The air
between them went still. Painfully
still. Meera covered her mouth with her
hand and let out a sound, not a scream,
not a cry, something softer, more
broken. A sound of something inside her
collapsing. She turned slowly like
someone who had forgotten how to walk
and began to leave. No one stopped her.
No one called her name. She walked
through the school gate, down the dusty
road, past the motorcycles and the shops
and the noise until the city became
quiet behind her. Her tears didn't fall
all at once. They came slowly, like her
heart was crying drop by drop. It was
late evening when she returned to the
village. The sky was dark, the wind
cold. Her father was sitting outside
waiting. When he saw her walking toward
the house alone, he knew. He didn't ask.
He didn't say a word. He simply opened
his arms and mirror fell into him
shaking, sobbing, breaking. "Papa," she
cried into his chest, her voice cracking
painfully. "I did everything for him,
everything, and he left me." Her father
held her tighter, stroking her back
gently. My child," he whispered, his own
voice heavy. "Love is a seed, but it
must be planted in soil that wants to
grow. You planted in a heart that had
already closed." Meera wept harder,
clutching his shirt. Her father closed
his eyes, feeling his own tears rise.
"But listen to me," he continued, his
voice steady despite the pain. "You did
not lose anything. It is he who has lost
because the world has only won you.
Kindness like yours is not found twice.
Myra's cries softened into quiet sobs.
Her father held her until the night grew
silent. And in that moment, Meera did
not heal. But she did not break alone.
The days that followed were quiet in the
small village. The kind of quiet that
feels heavy, not peaceful, but filled
with unspoken things. Mera woke up every
morning, but her movements were slower
now. She fetched water, swept the
compound, prepared her father's tea, but
the spark that once lived in her eyes
was dim. She did not go to the market
for a while. The firewood axe rested
untouched against the wall. Her father
watched her closely, not with pressure,
but with patient presence. He did not
rush her grief. He knew heartbreak had
no quick remedies. Sometimes, when the
sun was high, Mirror sat outside under
the mango tree, just staring at the
road. The same road she once looked at
with hope. Now she looked at with
emptiness. She replayed everything in
her mind. The nights she stayed awake
talking to him. The morning she woke
early to work. The laughter, the
promises, the dream. They felt distant
now, like a story that happened to
someone else. One afternoon, as Meera
sat outside, her father came to sit
beside her. He sat slowly as his bones
were not young anymore. They sat in
silence for some time. "Mirror," he said
finally, his voice gentle. "You have
cried enough for someone who did not see
your worth." She didn't respond. Her
eyes stayed fixed on the road. He
continued, "Pain does not mean you were
foolish. It means you loved. And loving
is not a crime." A tear rolled down
Myra's cheek, though she didn't even
seem to notice it. "But now," her father
said softly, "you must love yourself,
too." Mera took a slow breath. shaky but
deeper than before. I don't know how to
start again, she whispered. Her father
nodded as if he had expected that. You
don't start by forgetting, he said. You
start by living. One small step, then
another, and slowly. Your heart will
remember how to beat without breaking.
Mera closed her eyes. Her father's words
did not fix the pain, but they softened
it just a little. The next morning, she
woke before dawn, just as she always
used to. She sat on the edge of her bed,
looking at her hands, the same hands
that had once worked with pride and
hope. She stood, tied her scarf, and
walked to the bush. The air was cool,
filled with the smell of early morning
leaves. Birds were just waking. The
world felt new, untouched. Mirror picked
up the axe. Her grip was unsteady at
first, but then she exhaled slowly and
began to gather wood. Her movements were
slow but careful. She wasn't working for
someone now. She wasn't sending money to
anyone. She was simply trying to live
again. When she returned to the market,
the women noticed her, some looked at
her with sympathy, some with curiosity,
but no one mocked her, and Meera did not
speak much. But she worked quietly,
steadily. Her heart was still healing,
raw, bruised, tender, but she was
breathing again. Weeks passed, slowly,
gently. Sometimes she still cried at
night. Sometimes she woke up with her
chest tight. Healing is not a straight
road. It is a winding path. But her
father was there, always sitting near
her, helping her tie bundles, eating her
food, even when she barely tasted it.
She was not alone. One evening,
something unexpected happened. A truck
stopped near her firewood stall. The
driver was a calm-l lookinging man with
thoughtful eyes. He watched her work for
a while, then approached. "I've been
observing you," he said, his tone
respectful, not intrusive. "Every day
you are here. You carry yourself with
dignity. I run a charcoal and timber
supply business. I am looking for
serious, honest partners from villages
like this." Meera looked up slowly. His
eyes were steady, not pitying, not
curious, just sincere. "I can buy your
firewood in bulk," he continued. "Not
just these small bundles. If you're
willing, it will mean more work, but
also better income." Myra's breath
caught slightly. She didn't speak yet.
She simply listened. Her father, who had
been nearby, stepped forward quietly.
The man greeted him respectfully. They
talked for some time. Slow, detailed,
gentle, not rushed, not forced. An
opportunity was opening.
Not because Mirror chased it, but
because life was beginning to turn very
quietly, very slowly, just like healing.
Meera began partnering with the man who
came to the village. His name was Mr.
Jonah. He was patient and respectful,
never speaking to her as if she was
small or dependent. He saw how hard she
worked, how carefully she measured each
bundle, how she never cheated anyone. He
admired her honesty. With time, Mr.
Jonah introduced her to suppliers, to
transporters, and to market sellers in
nearby towns. He taught her how to
calculate profit, how to set prices, and
how to save properly. Meera listened
quietly. She did not rush herself. She
learned slowly, steadily. Months passed,
then a year. Her firewood stand became a
small distribution stall. Then a
storehouse. Then a small transport truck
was hired in her name. She no longer
carried firewood on her head. She
oversaw workers now calm, gentle, and
fair. Her father watched her rise with
pride, warming his tired eyes. "You
see," he would say, resting his hand on
hers. Your hands did not fail you. Your
heart did not betray you. It only
learned. Mirror would smile softly. She
was not the same girl who once waited
under a mango tree with tearful hope.
Her heart had healed, not quickly, but
truthfully. She had learned that love is
not proven by suffering. Love is proven
by how it returns what is given. And
David never returned anything. David had
started a new life with Sandra. At
first, things were bright. They took
pictures. They smiled. They attended
weddings. They posed like the world was
theirs. But life has its seasons. Sandra
liked comfort. And David, fresh from
university, did not yet have much to
give. Her expectations grew sharper. Her
tone less gentle. Arguments filled the
house. Money became a constant shadow.
David tried to find good jobs, but
competition was high. And every time he
failed, Sandra's patience thinned. "You
can't provide the life I want," she said
one evening, her eyes cold. And
eventually, she left. Just walked away,
leaving David with nothing but memories.
Memories he tried to silence, but could
not. And in those moments of quiet, when
pride finally grew tired, Myra's face
returned. Not the face of pain, but the
face of loyalty, the girl who believed
in him when no one did. Regret settled
in his bones like winter cold. One
morning, 2 years after the graduation
day, a familiar figure walked into
Myra's compound. David, his clothes were
worn, his eyes tired, his shoulders no
longer proud. Life had humbled him.
Mirror was sorting charcoal when she
looked up and saw him. Her heart did not
race. It did not stumble. It simply
stood still, calm and steady. Mirror, he
whispered, his voice breaking. I came to
say, I'm sorry. She looked at him really
looked. Not with anger, not with
longing, but with understanding. The
kind that comes after pain has already
done its work. You hurt me, Mera said
quietly. You broke what I gave with all
my heart. David nodded, tears gathering.
I was foolish, blind. I didn't know your
worth. Please, if we could just Meera
lifted her hand gently, not to silence
him harshly, but to stop a wound from
reopening. There is no we, she said
softly. There is only what has passed
and what we have learned. David
swallowed hard. His tears finally fell.
I lost you, he whispered. Mera shook her
head. No, she said calm and sure. You
lost yourself when you chose image over
love. I only walked away when I had
nothing left to hold on to. The wind
moved softly between them. David lowered
his head, sobbing quietly. Meera watched
him, and then she did something
surprising. She forgave him, not with
words, not with promises, but with peace
in her eyes. "You may go," she said
gently. "Your journey is yours now. Mine
is already begun." David looked at her
one last time, at the strength she had
become, and he knew the truth. He had
lost something that life would not give
him twice. He walked away, not because
she told him to leave, but because he
finally understood he did not belong in
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