Mr. Tembo had cycled this path many times before, but today the wind felt heavier, as if the road itself carried sorrow. The letter in his bag wasn't just paper—it was the final cry of a child who had been abandoned too long. Zaria's handwriting had become shaky, the ink smudged by tears. She hadn't said much in this last one.
Mr. Tembo swallowed hard as he approached the large gate of the estate. The house was neat and well-kept, surrounded by flowers, a sharp contrast to the pain folded in the envelope he held. He knocked softly and waited.
As he reached into his bag to pull out the envelope, the gate creaked open. He looked up—and there she was.
A woman in a long maroon dress stepped out with confidence, her handbag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was freshly styled, her makeup flawless. She looked like someone who had never known struggle. The name immediately rose to his lips.
"Beatrice?" he asked, his voice tight.
The woman turned slightly and looked at him with confusion.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked with a stiff smile.
Mr. Tembo shook his head slowly, holding up the letter.
"No, but I know you," he replied. "I've seen your name enough times. Beatrice Sally. Zaria's mother."
Her expression changed slightly. Not panic. Not guilt. Just a brief flicker of something—annoyance? Recognition?
"I've been the one delivering your daughter's letters for almost a year now," Mr. Tembo continued, his tone growing firm. "All thirty of them. And this"—he held out the final envelope—"is the last one."
Beatrice didn't reach for it.
He stared at her for a long moment. "Have you read even one of them?" he asked, his voice now heavy. "Do you even know what's inside these letters? What this girl—your daughter—has been going through?"
She crossed her arms, lips tightening. "Sir, I don't appreciate being approached in this manner. I don't recall giving you permission to question my personal affairs."
"Permission?" Mr. Tembo nearly laughed. "Madam, your daughter is dying. She coughs blood every day. She hasn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. She has no medicine, no comfort, no love. Nothing. And she still writes you with hope, like you might come for her. She believes you're her mother."
Beatrice looked away, clearly uncomfortable, but she didn't say a word.
"You wear perfume and fine clothes," he said, his voice thick with frustration. "You walk past gates and glass like someone with peace. But that little girl—Zaria—has been fighting to survive every day in a house that doesn't love her. And she writes to you like maybe you still care."
Beatrice clenched her jaw. "I have nothing to say," she muttered.
Mr. Tembo shook his head and gently dropped the letter onto the small pillar by the gate.
"You don't have to say anything. But I hope one day… you don't regret the silence. Because right now, I can tell you—Zaria might not have much time left."
Beatrice hesitated. Her face remained unreadable. She turned and walked away, heels clicking confidently on the tiled pathway, disappearing behind the gate without ever looking back.
Mr. Tembo stood there a moment longer, the metal gate now firmly shut before him. He sighed, placing his hand briefly on the pillar where the letter lay.
"I hope one day," he murmured to himself, "you don't regret this."
He turned, mounted his bicycle, and pedaled away.
---
Back in the village, Zaria was unaware of anything that had happened. Her body ached all over. Her cough had returned stronger than before, and now she couldn't even keep down warm water. She lay on the store floor, curled up in a thin cloth, staring at the cracks in the wooden ceiling.
No one had brought her food that day. It was now two days without a meal.
When Sarah walked past her, she hissed. "You're such a burden. Get up and go sweep the backyard. Don't just lie there like a dying dog."
Zaria tried to speak, but her lips were too dry. Her head spun. She placed a weak hand on the ground and attempted to rise, but collapsed again.
Sarah didn't stop. She entered the house and shut the door.
Zaria's vision blurred. The world was spinning again. She could barely breathe. Her thoughts wandered back to the letter—her final one. She wondered if her mother would open it. Or if it would end up in the trash like all the others. Would she at least read the last line?
"If you ever come for me, I might be gone."
The thought stung her heart more than the pain in her chest.
By nightfall, her body trembled uncontrollably. She had coughed blood again, staining the little cloth she had folded in secret. Her hands were freezing. Her legs weak. But her tears had run out.
Outside, the stars looked down quietly—witnesses to a child the world kept ignoring.
And while the city lights blinked far away where Beatrice lived, not a flicker of concern came from the woman who once held Zaria in her arms.
In the darkness, Zaria whispered to herself.
"Maybe… maybe she was never coming."
And then she closed her eyes.