Chapter 4 The Echoes Of Home

Victoria stood in the cramped kitchen of the restaurant, steam curling around her like fog. Her hands were deep in soapy water, scrubbing plates and forks, pots coated in oil, and saucepans blackened with fire. She moved quickly, her thin arms arching with every motion, but she didn't complain.

Every plate she cleaned was one step closer to her future.

The kitchen smelled of onions, grease and salt. Waiters shouted back and forth in Afrikaans and Sotho. Orders clanged into the pass through window. Victoria kept her head down and worked.

It was hard. Exhausting. Humbling.

But it was hers.

She slept at the church each night, still in the spare room Sister Margaret had offered. The old nun had grown slightly warmer towards her, especially after seeing how punctual and respectful she was. Victoria always cleaned before leaving for work and helped with the evening prayers if she returned in time.

It was quiet. It was safe.

It wasn't home, but it was something.

Each night, she tucked the folded baby scan photo beneath her pillow and whispered to the life growing inside her: We are going to be okey.

-

Back in Pretoria, the mood was very different.

Victoria's mother's sat alone in the living room every evening, the curtains drawn, the front gate still unlocked just in case her daughter came walking back. She had not touched Victoria's room. Her daughter's perfume still lingered in the air, faint but familiar.

She prayed every night.

Every single night.

She begged God to keep her child safe, wherever she was. She lit candles. She fasted. She wept until her head ached and her voice grew hoarse.

"My baby... my only baby..." she whispered often, clutching Victoria's school photo to her chest.

Her father, however, consumed by rage and pride.

"What will the church think?" he barked when neighbors asked where Victoria had gone. He dismissed his wife's sobs. "Stop crying Mariam. You are only making this worse. If the congregation hears, if my boss finds out, we'll be the talk of the township!

"So, that's all you care about?"

"That's not what I said."

"Well it seems like, that's what you care about. You don't care if your daughter is safe or not. All you care about is, what people are going to say!"

"Don't shout at me Mariam, I'm not your mate. You know better than to shout at me."

To him, Victoria's disappearance wasn't a tragedy.

It was an embarrassment.

He made calls, not to the police, but to relatives and pastors. Urging them to keep things quite. He told people, Victoria had gone to visit a cousin. " Just needed some space,"He lied.

But inside he fumed. His daughter had dared to defy him. And worse she had exposed the cracks in his control.

Charles didn't care.

When his friends mentioned Victoria's name at school, he shrugged.

"She ran off. Not my problem," he said with a smirk.

He was already texting another girls, laughing with his teammates after soccer practice, living like the scandal never touched him.

Victoria's absence meant nothing to him.

She had been convenient, until she became complicated.

Now, he didn't even ask where she was.

Victoria didn't know all of this in detail, but she felt it.

She imagined her mother crying and her father raging. She wandered if Charles even noticed she was gone. It hurt, but it also helped her.

It reminded her that there was nothing left to go back to.

-

At the restaurant, she worked hard. Pieter was strict, but he paid on time. The other staff mostly ignored her, except for Nomsa, a warm eyed waitress with a gold tooth and big laughter. She started offering Victoria leftover bread rolls at the end of her shifts.

" You don't talk much, hey." Nomsa said one night, leaning against the sink during a slow hour.

Victoria wiped her hands on her apron . "Not much to say."

"You from Bloem?"

"No. Pretoria."

Nomsa raised an eyebrow. "And now you're here. Working for scraps. Must be one hell of a story."

Victoria gave a small smile. "Maybe one day I'll tell it."

Nomsa didn't push. "Just be careful. Here in Bloemanda... it's not kind to girls like us."

Victoria saved every cent. She avoided distractions. She didn't go out after. She stayed away from people who lingered too long on corners or asked to many questions. Sister Margaret helped her open a small savings account with her ID and a church reference.

After three weeks, she had nearly R3,000.

It wasn't much.

But it was proof.

Proof that she could build something.

One morning, after work, she stopped by a small letting agency. She found a room in a shared house just around town. Nothing fancy, but it had its own key, a locking door, a shower and a water closet.

"The rent is 2,000."

"I will take it," she said.

She moved in quietly the following week. She didn't tell anyone but sister Margaret. Who hugged her for the first time.

" You're brave," the old woman said.

Victoria smiled. "I'm trying to be."

That night, she lay on the thin mattress in her new room, looking up at the cracked ceiling. There was no furniture yet. No curtains. But it was hers.

She had done it.

She had not just run.

She survived.

She closed her eyes, hands on her belly. She felt a small hard bump. She was no longer alone.

And tomorrow. She would keep going.