Wonderful. Here's Chapter 10: The Weight of Dreams, a chapter that explores the emotional tension between hope and limitation—when Bonitah begins to dream bigger, but also faces the reality of how far she still has to go.
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Chapter 10: The Weight of Dreams
Dreams can be heavy things.
Not because they hurt—but because of how much they ask of the heart. How much they demand when life already takes so much.
Bonitah sat outside the community center after her shift, watching as Benaiah toddled through the yard with his arms outstretched like wings. He laughed every time he stumbled, undeterred by the fall.
That's what dreams felt like lately—like learning to walk again. Beautiful but unsteady.
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At the literacy class, they were learning how to write essays. One evening, the teacher gave them a prompt:
"Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Bonitah stared at the blank page for a long time. Her hands trembled as she picked up the pen.
She had never really allowed herself to dream that far ahead. Survivalist didn't leave space for visions. But slowly, carefully, she wrote:
"I want to run a small bakery. I want to wake up before sunrise and bake bread, sell it at the market, and teach other women how to do the same. I want a two-room house with a door that locks, and enough warmth in winter. I want Benaiah to go to school in a clean uniform. I want him to come home to love, not leftovers of pain."
She paused, surprised by how easily the words flowed.
That night, she showed the essay to Thando.
"You're dreaming now," Thando said softly. "That means you're healing."
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But dreams are not always met with applause.
When Bonitah shared her plan to save for baking equipment and attend a short business course, some in the group hesitated.
"Let's be realistic," one of the women said. "We have mouths to feed today, not five years from now."
Bonitah didn't argue. She understood. She had lived in that place for years—where each day was a mountain, and dreams were a luxury.
Still, something inside her had changed.
She didn't need everyone to believe.
She just needed to believe enough for both of them.
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She began baking small scones at night—testing recipes she learned from old pamphlets and YouTube videos at the community center. She sold them alongside her jars of peanut butter, and customers began to notice.
"Scones from the girl with the baby," they said. "Soft and sweet."
The extra coins weren't much, but they were enough to start a small savings envelope.
Each time she slipped in a folded note, she whispered a prayer: For Benaiah. For tomorrow. For the life we deserve.
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One evening, she found a flyer pinned to the notice board at church.
"Grant Opportunity for Women Entrepreneurs – Apply Today."
Her hands trembled as she tore it off. The application required a business plan, references, and a short essay.
She nearly threw it away.
Who was she to apply for something like this?
But then she thought of Benaiah. Of the nights they had gone to sleep hungry. Of the mornings he woke up smiling anyway.
She filled it out with shaky hands and deep breaths.
She wrote about her journey. Her stall. Her scones. Her dreams.
She delivered the form with Benaiah on her back and a heart full of both fear and faith.
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The waiting was the hardest part.
Each day passed with a little more hope and a little more doubt. The weight of her dream felt heavier now—because it had become real.
But still, she waited.
And she kept walking.
Because whether the door opened or not, she had already stepped through something bigger:
The belief that she—and her son—deserved more than just survival.
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