THE FIRST WOUND
Five years had passed since Peace was born.
She was a bright little girl—curious, cheerful, and full of questions. Growing up in a small, quiet neighborhood, Peace knew love, but only from a few people: her mother, Anny, her grandmother, Arit, and her uncle Dan
Their love was warm, constant, and unwavering. But even at five, Peace could feel something was missing.
She often sat by the window, watching other children play with their fathers. The way they ran into their dads' arms, laughing with joy—it stirred something in her.
"Where is my daddy?" she would ask, her voice soft but insistent.
Anny would freeze for a moment, then force a smile.
"Don't worry about that, my baby," she'd say, pulling Peace into a hug. "You have me. You have Mama."
But Peace wasn't satisfied. Children may be young, but they are not blind.
"Does he not want me?" she'd whisper one evening, her small fingers gripping her mother's wrapper.
Anny's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she said nothing.
That silence grew louder with time.
It was Peace's first real taste of rejection—not in words, but in absence, not in punishment, but in unanswered questions.
She didn't know the full story, not yet. But somewhere deep in her heart, she started to understand that whoever her father was, he wasn't coming. And neither was anyone from his side of the family.
And that hurt in a way even she couldn't explain.
But she would have to listen to her mum and believe that if she had a dad, he would be with her and her mum.
Just a few days after peace asked her mother about her father,
Peace knew deep down that her mother would never tell her the truth about her father. So instead, she turned to the one person she hoped would—her grandmother.
"Grandma?" she called softly.
Arit looked up from where she sat, knitting slowly, her eyes gentle. "Yes, Peace? What is it?"
Peace hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Then, in a quiet voice, she asked, "Do I have a father?"
Arit didn't seem surprised. She set her knitting aside, giving her granddaughter her full attention.
Peace's voice trembled as she continued. "If I do… Why isn't he here with me? Doesn't he love me? Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault he's not around?"
Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice broke on the last word. Arit moved closer and gently wiped her tears away.
"Oh, my sweet child," she said softly. "No, it's not your fault. None of it is your fault."
She took Peace's hands in hers. "Your mother loves you deeply. She only stayed silent because she didn't want your heart to carry this pain. But since you've asked, I'll tell you."
Arit paused, then continued, her voice calm but firm.
"Your father made his choice a long time ago. Even before you were born, he wanted nothing to do with you or your mother. His family turned their backs too. When you were born, he didn't come. He never called. He simply… walked away and started a new life somewhere else."
Peace's lip quivered, and more tears spilled down her cheeks.
"But listen to me," Arit said, cupping her face gently. "Don't let his absence make you question your worth. You have your mother, you have me, and you have Uncle Dan. We love you fiercely—more than he ever could. You are not unwanted. You are deeply loved."
Peace nodded, wiped away her tears, and confidently hugged her grandma. With a smile, she returned to play. After knowing the truth she never asked if her father
On a hot afternoon, Peace had just returned from school, and the house had been quiet—until the cries came.
They rang out from her grandfather's room, sharp and sudden, slicing through the silence like a blade.
Peace froze. Her heart skipped.
She had only one family, people from her mother's side. He was more than just an old man to her. He was her playmate, her storyteller, her everything.
Without thinking, she ran toward the room, feet pounding the tiled floor. But just as she reached the doorway, her mother stopped her—arms firm, eyes filled with something Peace couldn't understand.
"Go back, Peace," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Peace obeyed. But her small chest tightened. Something wasn't right. Something had gone wrong.
That night, the house was filled with whispers and hurried footsteps. Grown-ups came and went. Nobody told her anything. She sat on the edge of her bed, hugging her knees, asking herself the same question over and over:
What happened?
The next morning, the sun came up like it always did, but the house felt colder, emptier. Her grandfather's door was closed. His chair, empty. His laugh, gone.
She turned to her mother with wide, confused eyes.
"Mummy… where is Grandpa?"
Anny, her mother, knelt slowly and took her daughter's hands. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red.
"Peace," she began gently, "Grandpa has gone to be with God. He's in Heaven now."
At her age, Peace didn't understand the full weight of those words. She only knew one thing: she wouldn't see her grandfather again.
She burst into tears. Big, innocent tears.
Her mother pulled her close and stroked her hair.
"Shhh, baby. Don't cry. Grandpa loved you so much. You were his favorite girl. He wouldn't want you to cry, okay? If he saw you crying, he'd be sad. Maybe even a little angry," she added with a soft smile, trying to comfort her.
But for Peace, the world had shifted.
And even though she didn't yet understand death,
she had felt its sting.