-BROKEN NEST – FINAL EPISODE (
By Tiana
I refused to forgive my father, even when Jane did everything she could to convince me otherwise.
I told her to forget about the old man and let him die in his sins. I didn't want to hear Scriptures. I didn't want prayers. I didn't want healing. I just wanted to hate him in peace.
But Jane…
Jane was unrelenting.
She kept quoting Bible verses—not in that loud, performative way some Christians do, but softly… gently… like water dripping steadily on stone.
"Forgive, and you will be forgiven."
"Love keeps no record of wrongs."
"Blessed are the merciful…"
Every time she quoted a verse, she smiled. That smile… it had a way of slipping past my walls. It touched something deep inside me, like it knew the child I used to be—the girl I buried to survive.
Day by day, week by week, Jane followed up with me. She texted me in the mornings. Called me in the evenings. Sometimes, she brought food. Other times, she just sat with me in silence, her presence saying everything her words couldn't.
I didn't want to admit it, but I started to look forward to her visits. Even when I said nothing, she always made me feel seen… heard… held.
One day, after a long silence, she shared her own story. One I never expected.
Her father had abandoned her mother for another woman when she and her siblings were still children. He walked out and never looked back. No food. No support. No calls. Nothing.
She, the first daughter, had to grow up too fast. She became mother to her siblings and co-survivor with her mother. They hustled. They scraped. They prayed. They endured.
Years passed. They succeeded. Life moved on.
Then one day, her father returned—battered by life, half-paralyzed by a stroke, and begging for help.
At first, she said she burned with anger. All the old wounds reopened. She saw the man who had walked away as if they didn't matter, now crawling back as if they did.
She refused him.
Just like I was doing now.
But then something shifted in her. She remembered who she was—not just Jane, the doctor or the daughter—but Jane, the believer. Jane, the forgiven one. Jane, the child of God.
And she forgave him. Not because he earned it, but because she chose peace over pain.
"He died," she said, "but not in shame. He died knowing he was loved. And for that, I am grateful."
I looked at her, silent.
Her story moved me—but I still hardened my heart.
"Your father left," I said. "Mine stayed and still destroyed us. Yours walked away, but mine stood in our lives like a curse. He didn't just neglect us—he terrorized us!"
Jane didn't argue. She nodded slowly and simply said, "Pain is pain. But healing is healing too. And it's available to us, no matter how deep the wound."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Then, not long after, Sam called.
He had visited our father again.
He told me they had spoken deeply. And from the way Sam talked, I could hear it in his voice—he had forgiven him.
It infuriated me.
I called Sam a fool. I screamed at him and hung up. I felt betrayed. How could he be so soft? So weak?
But after that call…
I lost my peace.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't think.
My father began haunting my dreams. I'd wake up in cold sweat, hearing his voice—"Nana… forgive me…"
He was crying in those dreams. Always crying.
I was like a ghost. Wandering through lectures. Barely eating. Snapping at everyone. I started avoiding Jane.
But she came.
One evening, she arrived at my hostel, sat beside me, and held my hand in that calm, firm way she always did.
We talked. Or rather—she talked, and I listened.
Then she said something I'll never forget:
> "The darkest prison on earth is unforgiveness—and the only key to break free is forgiveness."
Her words shattered me.
I broke down and wept like a baby in her lap. Sobs racked through my chest, pulling years of buried pain to the surface.
"It's too hard," I cried. "Too painful. Too much. I can't do it."
But she just rocked me gently and whispered, "You don't have to do it alone. I'm here."
Two months later, I summoned the courage.
Dragging my heavy body, I went to see my father in the hospital. I rehearsed my lines. I was still unsure if I would forgive him, but I knew I needed to see him.
But when I arrived…
He was dead.
Gone.
Sam was there. So were some of our kindred. They were just about to call me.
Everything in me froze. My legs buckled. I stared at his lifeless body, lying still beneath a white hospital sheet.
I hadn't forgiven him.
I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to speak my truth.
Guilt gripped me like a dagger.
I dropped to the floor and wailed. I clutched his cold hand and cried from the deepest, darkest place in my soul.
I kept thinking:
> What if I had come sooner? Would he have lived a little longer?
What if he died not just from illness—but from the weight of regret?
I blamed myself.
The sky wept with me that evening. Rain poured hard as they took his body away. I stood in the open, soaked to the bone. But I didn't care.
With trembling hands lifted to the sky, I whispered through chattering lips:
> "I forgive you, Father. I forgive you.
May you find peace in death.
It was never your fault."
The guilt didn't vanish instantly.
But that moment—standing in the rain, speaking those words—was the beginning of my freedom.
I returned to Jane.
She welcomed me like a mother. Not with lectures, but with warm soup, a thick blanket, and her usual smile.
The day after the burial, I started therapy with her.
Jane was more than a doctor. She became my counselor, my mentor, my spiritual guide.
She was the mother I had lost—reborn in another form.
We fasted. We prayed. We journaled.
I learned to name my emotions. To understand my triggers. To break the cycles of shame and silence that had bound me for years.
I began to smile again.
And people noticed.
The once hard-faced, sharp-tongued Nana became known for her warmth. Girls came to me for advice. Lecturers complimented my growth. My grades improved. I was even elected as a class rep the following semester.
Jane began taking me to mini-events, church gatherings, emotional wellness bootcamps—places where I shared my story with other wounded souls.
It terrified me at first, but each time I spoke, healing flowed—not just for them, but for me too.
One afternoon, after I had just spoken at a youth outreach, I saw him.
The man who once betrayed me.
Our eyes locked, and time seemed to stop.
He looked shocked—perhaps even ashamed.
And then something unexpected happened…
I apologized.
I told him I was sorry for the way I responded. That I was healing, and part of my healing was releasing everyone who ever hurt me—including him.
He stood there, stunned. Speechless.
I didn't need his apology. I didn't need closure.
I had already won.
I was free.
I was no longer the angry girl who wanted revenge. I was a woman becoming whole.
A few months later, I met the man I would marry—a pastor from Jane's church.
Imagine that. Me? A pastor's wife?
But he was gentle. Kind. Respectful. Patient.
He saw my scars and called them beautiful. He didn't try to fix me—he loved me into healing.
I fell in love. Slowly. Carefully. Completely.
On our wedding day, I wore white—not just to symbolize purity, but peace.
I was no longer wounded.
I was whole.
Later, Jane encouraged me to find my mother. And I did.
She had remarried in the North. Had new children. Hadn't come home in years.
Seeing her again brought another wave of pain—but I had learned by now how to ride the waves.
I forgave her too.
She cried in my arms. I cried too.
Forgiveness is light.
It is the gentle glow that calms the dark, throbbing heart.
It is the therapy no pill can offer. The healing that no surgery can perform.
It is fluorescence.
Now I laugh often.
I dance in the rain.
I speak boldly.
I love deeply.
The once hardened, bony-faced Nana is now known for her radiant smile.
Funny—I can't even remember the last time I smiled before I met Jane.
And so, this is my message to you, whoever you are:
> It costs nothing to help a broken soul.
Sometimes, all it takes… is a smile.
A smile that reaches the heart.
A smile that refuses to let go.
So please… smile.
Your smile might soften the hardest, darkest heart somewhere out there.
It starts with a smile.
My name is Nana Bassey, and this… is my story.
THE END
#fictionwriter
#weaves of words
#tiana