The Unraveling of Rose – Part One: “Whispers of the Forgotten”

The Unraveling of Rose – Part One: “Whispers of the Forgotten”

A story of loss, identity, betrayal, and grace

There are mornings you never forget.

Not because the sky was particularly beautiful, or the birds sang louder than usual, but because something inside you shifts — and nothing ever feels the same again.

Rose remembers that morning well. The sun had barely touched the curtains. Harare was still half-asleep. But in that quiet, something stirred in her soul.

A whisper.

A feeling.

A heaviness.

It told her, “Everything you knew was a lie.”

She blinked hard, as if she could rub it away like sleep crust in her eyes. But this wasn’t a dream.

This was the beginning of everything falling apart.

Rose had grown up in the hands of her grandparents — two pillars who tried their best to make life feel whole, even though the cracks showed more as she got older.

Her mother?Gone before Rose could even memorize her face.

Her father?

A ghost no one ever mentioned.

Instead, Rose was raised by a circle of guardians: her uncle, his wife, and her older sister. They were loving enough on the surface, but there was always this invisible curtain between her and the truth.

Still, she smiled.

Because life in Harare taught her early: you either cry or laugh — and sometimes both at the same time.

She wore uniforms that had passed through several bodies before hers. She ironed them with steam from a boiling kettle and walked to school like she owned the city. She sucked on frozen Mazoe ice blocks like they were popsicles from heaven. Her joy wasn’t in what she had — but in how much she believed she had.

And she believed.

Until the knock came.

“Is Rose around?” the visitor asked, not even removing his cap.

“It’s about her father’s funeral.”

Silence.

Like the whole world had pressed pause.

“Whose funeral?” she asked, as her stomach tightened.

“Her biological father.”

The words hit like thunder without warning.

She didn’t even know he was alive. She had imagined him a hundred different ways — maybe he was a soldier, or a musician, or just a man who had made a mistake and left — but never had she imagined this.

Now, all she had of him was a casket.

Wood. Nails. Regret.

She stood by it — her feet trembling, her throat dry — staring at a man she had never known, but who was responsible for half her DNA. The emotions came in waves: Anger. Grief. Confusion. Loneliness.

“Why didn’t you ever come for me?”

“Was I that easy to forget?”

No one answered.

Coffins don’t speak. They just bury truths with them.

But death wasn’t done with her yet.

Shortly after, her biological mother — the woman who gave her life but whose presence was always a distant echo — died too.

Just like that.

She had been sick, but no one took it seriously. Her oldest sister — Rose’s aunt — had been left in charge while their parents flew to the UK for medical treatment.

“She’ll be fine,” they said.

“She’s just tired.”

But no, she wasn’t fine.

She died. Alone. Quietly.

Another funeral.

Another casket.

Another heartbreak.

Her grandmother — Rose’s warrior queen — stood frozen at the gravesite, her voice barely a whisper as she looked at her grandchild and said:

“So… who’s going to take care of you and your brother now?”

That sentence etched itself into Rose’s bones.

But even in chaos, God sends people.

And for Rose, it was her uncle — her mother’s younger brother — and his wife.

They didn’t ask questions. They opened their home, their wallets, their hearts. They adopted her like she was theirs. They clothed her, fed her, paid for every school trip, every pencil, every dream she dared to have.

They even tried — more than once — to bring her to the UK, where they lived. But ah, family politics.

There are people who watch orphans with a special kind of bitterness.

Something about seeing a child rise from ashes irritates the demons in others.

Some said, “Why should she go?”

Some blocked papers behind the scenes.

Some smiled at her face but cursed her name at night.

But she pressed on.

Then there was the other aunt — the same one who ignored her mother’s illness. She would invite Rose over for holidays.

To a big house.

With rules.

And ridicule.

Rose would sleep in the maid’s quarters — not because there was no room, but because that’s where they believed she belonged.

She had her own cups and spoons — not as gifts, but to remind her she was different.

“Special,” they’d laugh. “That one has her own dishes.”

And somehow, young Rose would still get excited to visit.

She thought that bare minimum was love.

She thought being tolerated was enough.

But time, that great revealer, taught her otherwise.

Then came the blow that almost broke her: the death of her grandmother.

Her shield.

Her compass.

Her one remaining sense of home.

After that, life turned grey.

But not all hope was lost.

One of her mother’s sisters — a soft-spoken, big-hearted woman — wrapped Rose in the kind of love that didn’t need to be earned.

“Come here, child,” she’d say, arms wide open. And Rose believed her.

Of course, this love came at a cost.

“She only cares about Rose.”

“She favours her.”

Whispers. Accusations.

But it wasn’t favouritism.

It was protection.

And that aunt’s kindness drove a wedge between sisters that remains to this day.

Still, Rose moved forward.

She studied hard.

Won prizes.

Spoke at assemblies.

Helped classmates.

Passed her A-levels with excellence.

And that’s when the plot twist came.

That same aunt — the one with the mockery, the maid’s quarters, the “special” cups —

suddenly started showing up.

With forced hugs.

Fake concern.

Backhanded compliments.

“Oh my daughter, you’ve grown so well!”

Now she cared?

But Rose didn’t speak. She just smiled.

Because sometimes, silence is the loudest clapback.

Because some people only value flowers after the petals have weathered the storm.

To be continued... 🌹