Please hurry up. Have you finished your breakfast, chimara? We’re already running late. Where is your sister now? Eating She responded while dining. OK please button up your jumper. I said again, my heart racing and my eyelids heavy with sleep; it hadn’t been long since they returned from a sleepover with their mother, who had hurriedly readied them for school before departing to her morning shift despite working all night.
After returning from the night shift, I closed my eyes for just an hour before falling asleep. Rolling from side to side of my bed, filled with resentment, anxiety, and great exhaustion, praying that a miracle could occur and someone would transport my kids to school every morning, not just today. How come I’m being tortured to such agony? My mind wandered with closed eyes and an awakened consciousness.Then a voice said, “Stop pitying yourself.” Nobody said it’d be easy. Get up; at the very least, you are doing it for your children. I had newfound vigour in my soul, yet I was still angry at myself.
Poor kids, how I wish they knew what was going through my mind; they would forgive all of my tantrums directed at them. Chizy, where are you? Come here, please. She promptly approached me, seeking for assistance with her shoes, which she had on incorrectly. Bring your leg here. I stated as I switched her trainers and clothed her appropriately for school. Walking to the dining room, which adjoins the entry and exit doors to our house, I notice a dish with leftover cereals on the table. Whose plate is that? I exclaimed. Oh, mine, mine, sorry, they said, aware that after eating, their plates should be taken to the kitchen. “Please let’s go; we’re late.
Chimara, where are your bags and water bottles? She said, “Here, here,” and I replenished them with water before we walked out the door. My formerly cloudy head has progressively cleared of grief and weakness. A few minutes into our walk to school, as we doubled our pace to keep up with the clock, I heard a three-year-old whispering hello and waving at us, while her mother looked on in delight. I was confused at first, but a closer look caught me off guard when I recognised her smile and realised she was Chizy’s classmate and friend.
Boo-boo, isn’t that your friend? And, yes, she grinned in response before calling her out and asking that she accompany us to school. But the kid’s mother and I quickly exchanged pleasantries. Come on, gals, we need to get caught up on time. We fled quickly. We’re almost at the school gate, and it’s time. I directed Chimara and Chizy to sprint towards the school entrance, preventing it from closing, and I followed them.
As a child I never truly understood the sacrifices of my parents until now; I hissed
We finally made it. Chimara was the first to enter her class, followed by Chizy, and I returned home with a different perspective and enthusiasm than woke up. The miracle I longed for occurred indirectly, relieving me of wrath, anguish, and anxiety burnt out of sacrifices made for the love of a child by the parents, especially their father.
the untold Realities 