The weeks after the non-wedding were strange, suspended between endings and beginnings.
January arrived with its oppressive heat and the restless energy of a new year. Ava went back to work at the university, where everyone had heard about what happened—how could they not, in a city where gossip spread like wildfire, where everyone seemed to know someone who knew someone who'd been at that church on December 20th?
Her colleagues treated her with a mixture of supportive distance and curious glances. Some avoided eye contact, clearly uncomfortable with her sexuality or the scandal or both. Others made a point of being extra friendly, perhaps overcompensating for those who weren't. And a few—a precious few—treated her exactly as they always had, which felt like the greatest gift of all.
Dr. Themba, the department head, called her into his office the first week back.
"Ava," he said, gesturing to her to sit. "I wanted to check in. See how you're doing after—" He paused delicately. "After everything."
"I'm okay," Ava said, and was surprised to find it was mostly true. "Better than okay, actually."
"Good. That's good." He steepled his fingers, looking thoughtful. "I'll be honest—there's been some talk. A few board members expressed concern about whether this situation might affect your ability to teach and to be an effective role model for students."
Ava's stomach dropped. "Are you—are you saying my job is at risk?"
"No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. Your sexuality has nothing to do with your qualifications or your performance, both of which are excellent. I'm just letting you know that I've had to have those conversations, that I've had to defend your position. And I will continue to do so, for as long as necessary."
Relief flooded through Ava. "Thank you. I—thank you."
"What you did took courage," Dr. Themba continued. "Walking away from an arranged marriage, choosing to live authentically despite the cost—that's exactly the kind of ethical decision-making we try to teach our students about. You're living your values. That makes you more qualified to teach business ethics, not less."
Ava left his office feeling buoyed, validated. It was one thing to make a brave choice, another to have that choice respected and supported by people whose opinions mattered.
But not everyone was as supportive.
In her Business Ethics class that week, a student raised his hand during a discussion about corporate social responsibility.
"Miss Mokoena," he said, his tone challenging. "How can you teach us about ethics when you abandoned your family? When you humiliated your parents in front of their entire community?"
The classroom went silent. Ava felt every eye turn to her, felt the weight of judgment and curiosity and—from some students—sympathy.
She took a breath, centered on herself. "That's a fair question, though I'd argue it's more about personal ethics than corporate responsibility. But let me ask you something—is it ethical to live a lie? To marry someone you don't love because it's what others expect? To sacrifice your authentic self to maintain appearances?"
"But family—" the student started.
"Family is important," Ava interrupted gently. "But so is integrity. So is honesty. So is living in alignment with who you truly are." She looked around the classroom, meeting eyes. "Sometimes the most ethical choice is also the most difficult one. Sometimes, doing the right thing means disappointing people you love. That doesn't make it less right—it just makes it harder."
Another student, a young woman in the front row, raised her hand tentatively. "Miss, I think what you did was brave. My sister is a lesbian, and watching her hide who she is, watching her pretend to date men to make my parents happy—it's killing her. Seeing you be so open about it, it gives people like her hope."
"And people like me," another student added quietly. A few others nodded in agreement.
The challenging student looked uncomfortable but didn't say anything more. The discussion moved on to other topics, but Ava felt like something had shifted. She wasn't just a lecturer anymore—she was a visible representation. For students who were gay, who were struggling with family expectations, who were trying to figure out how to live authentically in a world that demanded conformity, she was proof that it was possible.
It was a responsibility she hadn't asked for but found herself willing to carry.
---
At home—and it was home now, really and truly—Ava and Liana settled into a rhythm. Mornings making coffee together, fighting over who got to use the shower first, the comfortable domesticity of shared space and shared life. Evenings cooking dinner side by side, or ordering takeaway when they were too tired to cook, or sometimes just eating cereal for dinner because they were adults and nobody could tell them not to.
They had their first real argument three weeks into living together—about dishes, of all things. Ava liked to wash them immediately; Liana preferred to let them soak. It was stupid and small and they both knew it, but they fought anyway because they were stressed and adjusting and learning how to share space with another human being.
"I'm not your mother," Liana snapped at one point. "I don't need you hovering over me, judging my cleaning habits."
"I'm not judging—I'm just saying that if we do them right away, they're easier to clean—"
"And I'm just saying that I've been living alone for five years and managing just fine without you micromanaging my kitchen habits!"
They'd stared at each other, both breathing hard, both realizing how ridiculous they sounded. And then they'd both started laughing, the tension breaking like a snapped rubber band.
"We just had our first fight," Liana said wonderingly.
"About dishes," Ava added, shaking her head. "Not about my parents, or the church, or anything actually important. About dishes."
"Does this mean we're really doing this? Really living together, all the annoying mundane parts included?"
"Yeah," Ava said, pulling Liana into a hug. "I think it does."
They figured out a compromise—Ava would wash dishes immediately, Liana would put them away later. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs, negotiated and agreed upon like adults who respected each other.
It was these small moments—these tiny negotiations and compromises and learning curves—that made Ava realize what building a life together actually meant. It wasn't just the grand gestures, the dramatic choices, the brave stands against family pressure. It was also figuring out how to share a bathroom, whose turn it was to buy groceries, how to navigate different sleep schedules and work pressures and household chores.
It was ordinary. And Ava had never been so grateful for the ordinary in her life.
---
In February, Ava met with Thabo for coffee. They'd stayed in touch through occasional texts, but this was the first time they'd seen each other face-to-face since the non-wedding.
He looked good—lighter somehow, like he'd shed weight that wasn't physical but emotional.
"How are you?" Ava asked as they sat down with their drinks.
"Complicated," he admitted. "My mother isn't speaking to me. She blames me for letting you 'slip away,' as she puts it. As if you were some prize I failed to win rather than a human being making her own choices."
"Thabo, I'm so sorry—"
He waved her off. "Don't be. In a weird way, your choice freed me too. It showed me that you can survive your parents' disappointment. That you can choose yourself and still be okay."
"Have you—" Ava paused, not wanting to push. "Have you talked to them? About your own situation?"
"Not yet. But I'm getting there." He smiled, small but genuine. "I actually went on a date last week. With a man. For the first time in my life, I went on a date with someone I'm actually attracted to rather than someone my mother approved of."
"Thabo, that's amazing!"
"It was terrifying. And exhilarating. And I have you to thank for it. Watching you be so brave—it made me realize that I could be brave too. That I didn't have to live my entire life pretending to be someone I'm not."
They talked for over an hour—about his date, about his slow process of coming to terms with his sexuality, about the day of the wedding when he'd stood at that altar and told everyone the truth.
"Your mother cried," Thabo said. "And your father—I've never seen someone look so angry and so heartbroken at the same time. But Ava, they needed to hear it. They needed to understand that this wasn't a phase or a rebellion. That you were serious."
"Have they accepted it?"
"I don't know. I haven't spoken to them since that day. My mother talks to you occasionally, but she doesn't share details with me. All I know is that they're still in Johannesburg, still going to church, still—I imagine—trying to figure out how to hold their heads up in a community that loves to gossip."
Ava felt a pang of guilt mixed with defiance. She wasn't responsible for managing her parents' emotions or their community standing. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt to know they were suffering.
"My mother texts me sometimes," Ava admitted. "Nothing deep. Just—checking in. Asking how I'm doing. We haven't talked on the phone yet, but—it's something."
"That's more than nothing. Hold onto that. Even if it takes years, even if it's slow—it's more than nothing."
After they parted ways, Ava thought about what Thabo had said. It's more than nothing. Her mother's occasional texts weren't acceptance, weren't approval, but they were acknowledgment. They were a lifeline, however thin, connecting Ava to the family she'd grown up in.
She pulled out her phone and looked at the last message from her mother, sent two days ago: "I saw Jacarandas blooming on our street today. Remember how you used to love them as a little girl. Hope you're well.*
It wasn't much. But it was something. And maybe, eventually, something could grow into more.
---
March brought autumn weather and unexpected developments.
Aunt Sarah, her mother's younger sister, called Ava one evening. They'd never been close—Aunt Sarah lived in Durban and only came to Johannesburg for major family events—but they'd always gotten along.
"Ava," she said without preamble. "I need to apologize."
"For what?"
"For not reaching out sooner. For not standing up for you when your parents—when everything happened. I was a coward, and I'm sorry."
Ava sat down heavily on the couch, Liana looking over with concern from where she was working at her desk. "Aunt Sarah—"
"I need to tell you something. Something I've never told anyone in this family except your mother, and I swore her to secrecy years ago." Aunt Sarah took a breath. "I was married once. Before Uncle John. To a woman."
Ava's mind reeled. "What?"
"It was brief—only two years. We met at university, fell in love, got married when same-sex marriage became legal. But the pressure from the family, the judgment from the community—it was too much. We couldn't handle it. We divorced, and I went back in the closet. Met John a few years later, married him, had children, lived the expected life."
"Aunt Sarah—"
"And I was happy. Am happy. John is a good man, and I love him. But sometimes I wonder what might have been if I'd had your courage. If I'd been brave enough to stay with her despite the cost."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that I understand. That I see you. And that is what you did—choosing yourself, choosing love—it matters. Not just for you, but for people like me who don't have that courage. You're showing us that it's possible."
After they hung up, Ava told Liana everything.
"Your aunt was married to a woman?" Liana said incredulously. "And your mother knew?"
"Apparently. Which makes her reaction to me even more complicated. She knew it was possible to be gay and still be a functioning member of the family, but she couldn't accept it in her own daughter."
"People are complicated. Accepting something in theory, or in someone else's family, is very different from accepting it in your own daughter."
"I know. But maybe—" Ava paused, thinking. "Maybe if Aunt Sarah talked to her. Maybe having someone in the family who understands could help bridge the gap between us."
It was a hope, fragile and uncertain. But Ava held onto it anyway.
---
In April, four months after the non-wedding, Ava's mother called.
Not texted—called. Ava stared at the screen, her heart hammering, before answering.
"Mama?"
"Ava." Her mother's voice was tentative, unsure. "I—can we talk? Actually talk?"
"Yes. Yes, of course."
"Not about—not about trying to change you or fix you. I just want to talk to my daughter. I miss—I miss hearing your voice."
They talked for twenty minutes. About nothing important—the weather, Ava's work, her mother's garden, a new recipe she'd tried. Surface-level conversation, but underneath it was something more. An acknowledgment that they were still mother and daughter. That four months of estrangement hadn't erased twenty-six years of relationship.
"I spoke with Sarah," her mother said toward the end of the call. "She told me about—her first marriage. I never told you because I thought—I thought it was better to keep it quiet. To not give you ideas."
"Mama, being gay isn't catching. You can't give someone 'ideas' about their sexuality."
"I know that. Now. I've been—" Her mother paused. "I've been reading. About what it means to be gay. About how it's not a choice. About how conversion therapy doesn't work and is actually harmful. I've been trying to educate myself."
Ava felt tears spring into her eyes. "You have?"
"I have. Because you're my daughter. And even if I don't understand everything, even if this goes against everything I was taught growing up—you're still my daughter. And I love you."
"I love you too, Mama."
"I'm not—I'm not ready to meet her. Liana. Not yet. And your father—he's still very angry. Very hurt. But maybe—" Her voice wavered. "Maybe someday. Maybe we can find a way through this."
"I'd like that. Whenever you're ready."
After the call ended, Ava sat in stunned silence. Liana came to sit beside her, taking her hand.
"Your mother's trying," Liana said gently.
"She's trying," Ava agreed. "It's not acceptance yet. But it's—"
"More than nothing," Liana finished.
"More than nothing," Ava echoed.
And for now, that was enough.