UNBROKEN PROMISE

~3~ Don't Have Elsewhere To Go

Oma’s POV

I gave him quick glances, not wanting him to catch me staring too long. He was a strongly built man—his chin just a little rough with the stubble of a beard trying to grow in. His broad shoulders filled out his shirt, his muscles evident even through the fabric. His jawline was well-defined, almost sharp. His lips were a striking contrast to his weathered look: full, soft, and pink, though they rarely curled into anything resembling a smile. A strong jawline framed his face, his features sharp and commanding.

The most intriguing detail was the scar across his right cheek—a stitched line etched into his skin, hinting at a story.  His dirty blonde hair, tousled and slightly unkempt, combined with his olive-toned complexion to give him an earthy, untamed charm., the kind of man that might have made my heart race under different circumstances. But right now, all I felt was fear, my chest tight with uncertainty. If I wasn’t so scared, I could admit to myself that he looked like the kind of man I would’ve loved, or at least been drawn to.

He said something about my papa, and my heart stilled for a moment. I searched his face, wondering if he was telling the truth. Could he have really known him? My father… I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. He died of cholera, that much I knew. He’d told the doctor not to let me see him, afraid I might catch it too. Before he passed, he’d booked me a room at the town’s boarding house to keep me safe. And then he was gone. Just like that. No last words, no farewell, just the emptiness of not having him in my life anymore.

The town people hadn’t cared much. They never liked me. I was the brown baby, the one with a white father and a black mother. That alone had been enough to make them keep their distance. My mama died during childbirth, and I never knew her, but I knew what she’d meant to my father. He named me Caroma meaning 'Joy and strength' just like my mama had wanted. He said she chose that name so I’d always carry a piece of her and her heritage with me.

Papa loved to tell me stories about her. How they met and how he fell in love with her even when the world around them couldn’t accept it. Slavery might have been abolished, but that didn’t mean people’s hearts had changed. White folks didn’t fancy my mama, and even the Black community wasn’t too happy with her being married to a white man. They called it an abomination, something that shouldn’t have happened. But my papa didn’t care about what anyone thought. He loved my mama fiercely, and that’s all that mattered to him.

He used to say how strong she was, how she fought to bring me into the world, even though no one wanted to help her. When the time came for me to be born, the town folk turned their backs. No doctor would come. No midwife. They left my father and mother alone, as if punishing them for daring to be together. Papa did what he could. He told me how he delivered me himself, trembling and scared, but determined. But despite his efforts, my mama didn’t make it. She gave her life for mine, and I’ve carried the weight of that loss with me ever since.

Papa tried to raise me right, to teach me about where I came from, about both sides of my heritage. But it didn’t make life easier. I was stuck in the middle, never fully accepted by anyone, always the girl who didn’t quite belong. And after he died, there was no one left to protect me. I was on my own.

So now, staring across the table at this man claiming to have known my father, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being led down another path of disappointment. I wanted to believe him, but the pain of my past made it hard. Could someone who looked so much like everything I’d feared truly have cared for my father? Or was this just another cruel twist of fate?

When my papa died, everything got worse. The town didn’t care. It wasn’t long after his burial that they came for what was left of our lives. They took away all our property, claiming that my papa owed them. They made me feel like an outsider, like I wasn’t worth anything. Their kindness, if you could even call it that, was gone, replaced with the harsh reality that they’d only tolerated me because of my papa. Once he was gone, they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

I couldn’t stay there. After everything was taken from me, I boarded a train the next day, leaving behind the only place I’d ever known. I didn’t know where I was going or what I’d find, but I hoped that somewhere, there might be something better for me. But things only got worse. It felt like no matter where I went, I was never safe. I was constantly on the move, always running, always searching for something—anything—that might be better than the life I’d left behind.

And now, here I was, with this man who had just saved me from possible humiliation, telling me that he knew my papa. That he’d made a promise to him. My heart twisted with uncertainty. I didn’t know what to believe, didn’t know if I could trust him. He seemed so sure of himself, so certain about what he was saying, but I was scared. Scared of what this meant, of what he might want from me. I was only eighteen, just barely stepping into adulthood, and already my world felt like it was crumbling. Everything had fallen apart, and I didn’t know how to piece it back together.

I glanced at him again, trying to find some trace of familiarity in his face. He said we were friends when we were kids, that he used to come with his father when they got supplies. He talked about a bittersweet memory, something from our childhood. He said that I got hurt once, and he was the one who helped me. But no matter how hard I tried to remember, I couldn’t. My mind was a blur, and it scared me even more, not being able to grasp onto anything that could reassure me.

I was trapped in a moment of doubt, and I didn’t know how to escape it. All I could think about was how alone I felt, how the last piece of my past was being handed to me by a man I didn’t even remember.