Chapter 15 - Regrets and Small Victories

The morning air in Johannesburg cut straight through me sharp, cold, honest. Every noise, every face, every mistake I'd made pressed in. My body, my choices, Thabo. I'd cried myself sick last night, wishing I could claw my way back in time, wipe it all clean. The pregnancy was gone. He was gone. I was left hollow, staring at a future I couldn't picture.I caught myself rubbing my stomach, remembering what was there, what wasn't anymore. Guilt bit down hard. I told myself I'd done what I had to do. You can't raise a child when you can't even feed yourself. But reason didn't dull the ache. Regret slipped in anyway, silent and constant as rain through a broken roof.Survival doesn't care about regret. By noon, I'd forced the thoughts down. I scraped together enough for rent and a few meals. Each rand counted. Every time I ate, I reminded myself: you're still here. You're still breathing.Walking to my first day of work, the streets were brutal cars weaving, people shouting, taxis cutting corners. Every stranger looked like they belonged. I gripped my bag tight. It felt heavier than it was, filled with everything I owned, everything I still had to lose. My stomach knotted, but I kept moving. Focus or get eaten alive.The office was glass and steel, so tall it hurt my neck to look up. Inside, the floors shone, footsteps and voices bouncing off the walls. Coffee, perfume, nerves. I handed over my new ID, signed in, and stepped into a world that didn't know me, didn't care about my past.My desk was tucked in a corner by a window. I unpacked my notebook, some pens, a battered photo—nobody important, just proof I'd survived before. Hunger clawed at me, but I ignored it. Eating could wait. Failing couldn't.The morning blurred—training, names, instructions, all coming too fast. My hands shook from exhaustion, not fear. I'd survived worse. Every scrap I learned was another brick in the wall between me and the streets. I was building something, piece by piece.Lunch was a street stall. The smells—grease, spice, meat—made my mouth water. I bought the cheapest sandwich, ate fast, kept my head down. Every bite was a small win. Hunger was just another battle.Walking home, dusk falling, my shadow stretched long on the pavement. Office lights flickered on, each one holding someone's story. Somewhere in this city, my mother was out there. I didn't know her face, her address, if she even cared. But she existed. That was enough to keep me searching, even when it hurt.Back in my room, I sat on the floor with my notebook, writing apologies I'd never send. Sorry for being too much, too little, too lost. Sorry for trusting the wrong people, for the things I'd done and the things I hadn't. At the bottom of the page, I wrote: I'm still trying. I'm still here.Sleep came late and hard. My dreams were tangled—faces I missed, places I'd never been, hands reaching for me and slipping away. But morning always came. Another day. Another chance. Johannesburg was loud and bright and unforgiving. I was small, but I was still standing. I would survive. And somewhere in this city, I would find her.