“Okay, let’s all calm down.” Dee is galvanized into action, taking Zodwa by the elbow and steering her away from the open door toward one of the couches. “Come in, Lindiwe,” she says, beckoning for her to follow. Once they’re all seated, she looks to me. “Ruth?”

I’m frozen in the bathroom doorway. The worst sense of foreboding is anchored in my stomach.

“Would anyone care to tell us what’s going on? Zodwa?” Dee asks once Mandla and I sit down.

Zodwa doesn’t say anything. She clamps her jaws together so tightly that the muscles at her temples bulge.

“Lindiwe?” Dee asks, turning to her for answers.

The social worker is quiet for a moment, as though deciding how much to divulge, and then she sighs. “She came to the sanctuary looking for him. She arrived the day after he went home.”

“He? Who’s he?” Dee asks, looking confused, but I know the answer before Lindiwe provides it.

“Mandla,” Lindiwe says, and then follows up with, “Zodwa’s his mother.”

No. It can’t be true. No. “His mother?” Dee struggles to keep up. “You’re saying Zodwa is Mandla’s biological mother?”

“Yes,” Lindiwe says. “Ask her.”

“Zodwa?” Dee’s voice is a horrified whisper.

Zodwa nods and a tear falls onto her lap. She reaches up a hand to brush more away from her face. “It’s true. I am his mother.”

My boy chooses that moment to squirm from my lap and reach out for her. His grabby hands—those perfect ten fingers extended toward her—are the most crushing thing I’ve ever seen. I close my eyes and clutch him tightly to me as Zodwa begins to speak.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Delilah

17 July 1996

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

I was raped,” Zodwa began by way of explanation, and I felt what little grip I had on the situation get wrenched from my grasp.

How many of our stories begin that way, I wondered, with violence rather than with love? How many of our lives are ruined because some man somewhere decided he would lay claim to something that wasn’t his?

“It was in August of 1993 and Mandla was born on May 10 in 1994,” Zodwa continued.

“That’s the same day he arrived on our doorstep,” I said. “But why . . . why did you bring him here to us?” I asked while shooting a concerned glance at Ruth.

She was deathly pale. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her dumbstruck and yet it seemed that Zodwa’s revelation had robbed her of speech. It would be up to me to get answers.

“I didn’t bring him here,” Zodwa said. “My mother did.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, you knew her. Leleti Khumalo.”

I had begun to shake my head no, indicating that Zodwa was mistaken, when she corrected herself.

“You knew her as Precious. She grew up here on the farm with you.”