I’m surprised to find how protective I am of Zodwa, how much grief and anger I feel on her behalf. When did I grow to love the girl? When did she begin to feel almost like a daughter to me? Was it when she saved Mandla’s life the first time? Was it the second? Was it when she saved me from drowning or was it when she stood her ground raging at me to be a better a mother? I don’t know, but in that analogy Mandla becomes like my grandson and that could surely work, couldn’t it? If Zodwa allowed it? Without his having a grandmother, surely there’s an opening there for me, somewhere I can slot myself into.

“How did the burial go?” I ask, and Zodwa looks up.

“It was fine.”

“I’m sure it was incredibly difficult. I couldn’t imagine having to bury Delilah and then . . . under those circumstances too . . .” I’m purposefully vague, not wanting to be insensitive.

She nods. “Yes, it was hard.”

We’re both quiet and I’m wondering how to break the ice and approach the discussion of Mandla when I decide to hell with tact and diplomacy. “Please don’t go, Zodwa. Please, I’m begging you to stay.” And then I’m crying, which is annoying because it hurts and makes it difficult to speak, but still I struggle on, trying to get it all out. “Please don’t take him away. You can both live in the cottage, which we’ll have fixed up for you, or we can add on to the house . . . we can do some renovations so we can all stay here together. Whatever you want. Please just say you’ll stay.”

Zodwa surprises me by getting up and coming to sit next to me on the bed. She reaches for my hand and holds it, probably feeling just as overwhelmed as I do. “I don’t want my son growing up seeing me as the maid. That’s not how I want him to remember me.”

“You won’t be the maid. Stay as our guest . . . more than our guest . . . our friend.” I want to say family but just because she feels like a daughter and Mandla feels like my son doesn’t make us a family. That’s something that has to be earned. “We want so much for you to be a part of our lives and for us to be a part of yours.”

“It’s Mandla you want. Not me.”