“My aunt burned my face with boiling water. Now I am the one who feeds her.”

I was only eight years old when the scream of my burning skin marked my life forever. My aunt—the very one who was supposed to take care of me—poured boiling water on me without mercy. The scars never faded, neither from my face nor from my heart.

Years later, fate took a cruel turn: she became bedridden, unable to care for herself. And now it is I who hold the spoon that keeps her alive.

Rejoice was only eight years old when her life changed forever. Her mother died giving birth to her baby brother, and her father—a construction worker overwhelmed with long hours—could not care for both a newborn and a little girl at the same time. So he made a painful decision: he took the baby with him to the city and left Rejoice in the care of his late wife’s older sister.

“It will only be for a while,” he told her as he held her tiny hand. “You’ll stay with your mother’s sister. She will treat you like her own daughter.”

But from the moment Rejoice stepped foot into that house in Aba, her life became a nightmare.

Aunt Monica was a bitter woman. Her husband had left her for a younger woman, and she carried that anger with her every single day. Her two sons, Justin and Terry, lived well: private school, fresh bread, clean clothes. But Rejoice slept on a mat beside the kitchen, wore torn hand-me-down clothes, and ate only after everyone else had finished.

“Do you think you’re a princess?” Monica shouted while throwing soapy water at her. “Do you come into my house to act like a lady?”

Rejoice washed dishes, fetched water, cooked, scrubbed the bathrooms… and still received slaps almost every day. Yet she never complained. At night, she stayed awake, whispering to her late mother:

“Mommy, I miss you. Why did you leave me?”

At school, she was quiet but intelligent. Her teacher, Mrs. Grace, would often tell her: “You have a gift, Rejoice. Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”

But it was hard for Rejoice to believe that. Her back bore scars from whippings. Her arms, from burns. Her cheeks, from Aunt Monica’s heavy rings.

Then, one Saturday morning, everything changed.

Rejoice was cooking rice and forgot to check the pot because she was busy sweeping the yard. When she returned, the rice was already starting to burn.

When Monica entered the kitchen and saw the pot, her eyes blazed with fury.
“Useless child! Do you know how much rice costs in the market?”

“Auntie, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to, I was sweeping…”

Before she could finish, Monica grabbed a kettle of boiling water and, without hesitation, poured it directly onto Rejoice’s face.

The scream that tore from the little girl was not only from pain—it was the cry of shattered innocence.

“My face! Mommy! Mommy!” she cried, clawing at the air, rolling on the floor. Her cousins, Justin and Terry, froze in horror.

“Now you will learn! Stupid girl!” Monica shouted as she dropped the kettle as though nothing had happened.

Neighbors rushed over at the sound of the screams. Someone called a man named Kevin, who carried Rejoice to the nearest clinic. The nurses were horrified when they saw her.

“Who did this? This is not an accident—this is boiling water! This is cruelty!”

Her face was swollen, covered in blisters. Her left eye completely shut. Her skin was peeling away. For days, she could neither eat nor speak properly. Loud noises startled her, even in her sleep.

The police were called. But Monica—who was a respected woman in the church and had good connections—claimed it was an accident.

“She was playing in the kitchen. She spilled it on herself. God knows I love that child.”

No one believed her. But without evidence, the case went nowhere.

Rejoice stopped speaking for weeks. When she was discharged, she still avoided everyone’s gaze. Unable to bear the guilt—or the constant reminder of what she had done—Monica sent Rejoice back to the village, to live with her grandmother.

Her body now bore visible scars, but the deepest ones—the internal ones—were much harder to see.

That night, sitting behind her grandmother’s kitchen and staring at the stars, Rejoice whispered:

“God… why do the wicked win? Why did you let her do this to me?”

And then she added, barely audible, as if making a vow:

“Someday, I won’t be poor. I’ll never beg for food again. I’ll never live in anyone else’s house again.”

The first time Rejoice saw her reflection after the burns, she barely recognized herself. Her once smooth skin was now twisted and cracked. Her left eye drooped. Her cheek looked like hardened clay. Slowly touching her face, she murmured:

“Is this… me?”

There was no answer.

But the girl in that mirror would rise again—scarred, but not defeated.

EPISODE 2: The Girl the World Rejected

Rejoice was only nine years old when she learned that life was not fair. The burn had stolen her face, but not her soul. And although each glance in the mirror felt unbearable, a tiny spark still lived within her: hope.

For months, she lived in silence in her grandmother’s house. The old woman was poor but kind. She brewed neem leaf teas to soothe her skin and sang old songs to her each night, though she never knew if her granddaughter was sleeping or crying in the dark.

“You will be fine, my child,” she said, stroking her head. “God does not abandon the righteous. He sees you.”

But Rejoice no longer trusted a God who seemed deaf to her cries.

The villagers looked at her with pity or horror. Children avoided her as if she were cursed. At school, some whispered that her face was divine punishment. Others simply couldn’t stand to look at her. Soon, she stopped going altogether.

One day, while walking to the well, she overheard a woman murmur:

“Look at her… the burned girl. Who will ever marry something like that?”

Rejoice gripped the rope of the bucket tighter in her hands and kept walking. She didn’t shed a single tear. Not anymore.

Salvation came in the form of dusty books.

Her grandmother, who had once been a teacher before becoming a widow, kept a small box of old texts. “They’re yours, if you promise not to give up,” she said one day, blowing the dust off a novel.

Rejoice devoured them hungrily. She learned to write poetry, to read aloud to the mirror, to dream of a world bigger than the one she had been given. At night, she read to her grandmother under the dim light of a candle.

By twelve, she returned to school, head held high, her face covered with a scarf. When the teacher saw her walk in, she couldn’t help but smile warmly.

“Welcome back, Rejoice. Your seat has always been here.”

The first days weren’t easy. Some classmates laughed, others whispered cruel things. But there was one girl, Zina, who sat beside her without a word. In time, they became inseparable.

One afternoon, after class, Zina asked her:

“Does it hurt?”

Rejoice stayed silent for a moment, then answered:

“Only when people look at me as if I’m a monster.”

Zina squeezed her hand tightly.

“You’re not a monster. You’re a warrior.”

At sixteen, Rejoice won a scholarship to a regional science competition. It was the first time she had left her village since the accident. In the city, nobody knew her story, and though some still stared curiously, there was no hatred, no slaps, no boiling water. Only possibilities.

She returned to the village with a bronze medal and a letter: a nonprofit organization wanted to sponsor her studies through university.

Her grandmother cried tears of joy.

But not everyone was happy.

One afternoon, someone knocked on her grandmother’s hut door.

It was Aunt Monica.

She was elegantly dressed, as always. Her makeup flawless, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve come to take her with me,” she said. “I’m her legal guardian. And if she’s going to study in the city, she should do it under my roof.”

Rejoice froze. Her grandmother pressed her lips together.

“After what you did? You have no shame!”

“There’s no proof of anything. And it was years ago. I… I made mistakes, but I want to make amends,” Monica replied in a forced voice.

Rejoice looked at her with a mixture of fear and fury. But also something else: control.

She was no longer the little girl sobbing in the kitchen. She was a young woman with scars, yes… but also with purpose.

“I’ll go with you,” she said slowly, “but not because I trust you. I’ll go because someday… you will look me in the eyes and wish you had never touched me.”

Monica swallowed hard.

Now, years later, Rejoice is twenty-two.

She is a doctor of biotechnology. She works in a children’s hospital where burn victims find comfort in her soft voice and crooked smile. Her scarf no longer hides anything. Her face, though marked, shines with unbreakable dignity.

And Monica…

Monica is bedridden, paralyzed by a stroke.

She cannot speak. She cannot walk. She only stares at the ceiling in silence.

And who feeds her? Who cleans her body and gives her medicine?

Rejoice.

Every spoonful she gives, every pill, every look… is a lesson.

“Life gives back what you sow, Aunt,” she whispers. “But I… I sowed love, even when you only gave me pain.”

EPISODE 3: The Forgiveness No One Understood

The hallway clock struck 6:00 a.m. Rejoice was already awake.

Each day began the same: boiling water, making oatmeal, crushing Monica’s pills in a mortar. Everything had to be ready before the hospital caregiver arrived. But at that moment, Rejoice wasn’t a doctor. She was the niece society said had to care for her aunt—even though that aunt had destroyed her childhood.

She entered the room with the tray. Monica remained motionless. Her eyes, the only part of her body that still moved, followed her slowly. Rejoice placed the spoon near her mouth and spoke in that serene voice no one could imitate.

“Good morning, Aunt. Today we have oatmeal with banana. Do you remember how you never let me touch the fruit because it was only for Justin?”

Monica didn’t answer, as always. But sometimes, Rejoice could swear she saw a tear slide down her cheek.

At the hospital, Rejoice was someone else. She wore a white coat and carried a smile that even the most wounded children felt as a balm. One five-year-old boy, with burns on both hands, once asked her:

“Doctor, were you burned too?”

Rejoice nodded, kneeling to his level.

“Yes. It hurt a lot. But it also made me strong.”

The boy looked at her with wide, admiring eyes.

“Then… will I be strong too?”

“Stronger than me, little one. Stronger than me.”

One Sunday afternoon, while sorting through research papers on tissue regeneration, Rejoice found an old box in the corner of the closet. It belonged to her grandmother, who had passed away two years earlier. Inside were letters, photos, a worn-out Bible… and a small note written in trembling handwriting:

“My daughter Rejoice, if pain ever overwhelms you, do not return evil for evil. God did not ask you for justice. He asked you for purpose.”

Rejoice closed her eyes. She remembered the nights on the mat, the cold soups, the silent tears… and her vow: “I will never live in anyone’s house again.”

She had made it. But something inside her was still broken. Not because of the scars. But because, deep down, a part of her still longed for something Monica would never say: “Forgive me.”

A week later, Rejoice was urgently called to the hospital. Monica had suffered a second stroke. She could no longer even move her eyes. She only breathed, faintly.

The doctors were clear: “She may not survive the night.”

Rejoice sat by her bedside. She held her aunt’s limp hand and spoke for the last time.

“You took my childhood. You took my face. But you didn’t take my soul. Every day I fed you, it was an act of war against hatred. And I won.”

Tears now streamed down her own face. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with release.

“And that’s why… though no one will understand… I forgive you.”

A long beep cut through the silence.

Monica was gone.

The funeral was quiet. Few cried. Some came out of courtesy, others out of habit. Rejoice, dressed in white, stood tall the entire time. Some whispered among themselves:

“Why did she do so much for that woman?”
“I could never.”
“She must be crazy.”

But Rejoice heard none of it.

She had buried her aunt. But more than that, she had buried her resentment.

Today, at twenty-five, Rejoice runs a care center for child abuse survivors. She named it Casa Estrella—like the stars she used to watch as a child, crying behind her grandmother’s kitchen.

Every child who walks through that door receives not only medical care, but something she herself had been denied for years: tenderness.

“You are not what was done to you. You are what you choose to be,” she tells them.

And when someone asks about her face, she simply smiles.

“These marks are not my shame. They are my story.”

EPISODE 4: When Scars Speak

The sun fell gently over the rooftops of Aba. For most, it was just another day. But for Rejoice, it was the beginning of something different.

For the first time in many years, she returned to the house where it had all begun.

Yes. Aunt Monica’s house.

The property had remained abandoned since Monica’s death. Justin had left for abroad without looking back, and Terry now lived in Lagos. No one claimed the house. No one even wanted to touch it.

But Rejoice did.

With the old rusty keys, she opened the gate that had once terrified her as a child. The metallic creak sounded like an old ghost awakening.

She walked slowly through the yard. Everything was covered in weeds and dust. The smell of dampness, mixed with memories, struck her chest.

The kitchen.

She stood in front of that door for several minutes. That corner where her face had changed forever… now it was just an empty space, with a forgotten pot still sitting on the stove.

She closed her eyes.

She heard the echo of screams, insults, pain. But she also remembered the little girl who, though broken, kept breathing. And she decided to do something unthinkable.

Two months later, Aunt Monica’s old house was no longer the same.

Where once there had been screams, there was now laughter. Where there had been fear, there were now games.

Rejoice had transformed it into a shelter for abused girls.

She called it “The House of Hope.”

On the first day it opened, only three girls came. One of them, Blessing, had a wound on her back that was still oozing. Another, Amaka, hadn’t spoken a word in two weeks. And the third, Kemi, had such an empty gaze that it sent chills.

Rejoice welcomed them with a smile.

“Welcome to your home. Here, no one will yell at you. No one will beat you. And no one will dim your light.”

The girls didn’t answer. But that night, Kemi approached her and gently touched her face.

“Were you like us too?”

Rejoice nodded, holding back her tears.

“Yes. And I still am.”

Over time, the shelter grew. Volunteers came. Psychologists. Donors. Rejoice began to be invited to conferences, TV programs, to share her story.

One afternoon, during a university lecture, a young woman in the audience raised her hand and asked:

“Would you forgive someone who destroyed your life?”

There was a long silence.

Then, Rejoice answered in a steady voice:

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means choosing that the past won’t control your future. My aunt hurt me, yes. But if I hadn’t forgiven her, I would still be her prisoner… even after her death.”

The room went silent. Some applauded. Others cried.

And in a corner, someone watched with shining eyes: Zina, the friend who had never abandoned her.

One day, while walking through the market, an older woman approached her. She wore a veil and walked with difficulty.

“Are you… Rejoice?”

She nodded, not recognizing her.

The woman slowly removed her veil.

It was Monica’s mother.

EPISODE 5: Light in the Darkness

The House of Hope had become much more than a shelter for wounded girls; it was a symbol of resilience, healing, and the future.

Rejoice walked through the rooms, watching how laughter broke the silence that had once ruled that house for years. Blessing was helping to prepare dinner, Amaka was drawing for the first time in weeks, and Kemi was singing a song she had invented herself.

The sound of soft footsteps pulled her out of her thoughts. It was Zina, the faithful friend who had always been by her side.

“Do you want to come with me?” Zina asked. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Rejoice nodded and followed her friend to the town square, where a group of people had gathered around a small improvised stage.

An older man, with a deep gaze, held a microphone. He was the local mayor, and just behind him hung a huge banner that read: “Recognition for Rejoice: An Example of Courage and Hope.”

Rejoice’s heart pounded when she heard the mayor speak:

“Today we honor a woman who, despite having faced the cruelest of adversities, has transformed her pain into light for our entire community.”

The applause was deafening.

Rejoice stepped onto the stage, her scars illuminated by the lights, her voice firm and clear:

“It wasn’t easy to get here. There were moments when I thought the darkness would consume me. But every day I chose to fight. I chose to love even when I was hurt. This recognition is not mine alone, it is for all the girls who are still looking for a safe place. For all those who need to know they can shine.”

As she stepped down from the stage, a young girl timidly approached her.

“Dr. Rejoice, thank you for teaching us that beauty lies in the soul.”

Rejoice smiled, remembering her own childhood reflection, and how that marked face was now the story of her strength.

That night, back at the shelter, while the girls slept, Rejoice pulled an old box from under her bed. Inside, she kept all the letters and photos that had accompanied her since childhood.

She wrote in a notebook:

“Today I learned that scars don’t define who I am, but the way I rise each day. And although life burned me, I choose to heal—and to help others heal.”

She lay down, tired but at peace.

Because she knew the real journey was only just beginning.

EPISODE 6: The Past That Cannot Be Forgotten

Although life at the House of Hope continued with joy and purpose, the ghosts of the past still visited Rejoice in the silent nights.

One afternoon, while reviewing documents for a new aid campaign, she received an unexpected call. On the other end of the line, a familiar yet trembling voice.

“Rejoice… it’s Justin.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Justin, her cousin who had disappeared years earlier, now wanted to see her.

“Why are you calling me?” she asked, holding back her emotions.

“I need to talk to you. There are things I never said and… I want to try to make amends.”

She agreed to meet him at a café in town.

When he appeared, the man looked worn out, with premature wrinkles and eyes heavy with guilt.

“I know I have no right,” he began. “When my mother hurt you, I just hid. I was afraid, and I did nothing to protect you.”

Rejoice looked at him without resentment.

“I wasn’t a strong child either. But I survived. And now, I make sure other girls survive too.”

Justin nodded.

“I want to help. I want to be part of the House of Hope.”

Little by little, Justin began working with Rejoice. He repaired the house, organized events, and gradually earned the trust of the girls.

But it wasn’t always easy.

One night, after an argument with his brother Terry, old family wounds reopened.

“Why do you support her?” Terry shouted. “She was never part of this family!”

Justin remained calm.

“Because she is the family I choose now. And because I believe in her strength.”

At a volunteer meeting, Rejoice addressed the group:

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting or allowing harm to repeat. It means choosing to heal and to build. Justin is here because he chose to be part of that path. We can all change.”

That night, as she closed the doors of the house, she looked up at the starry sky and whispered:

“Thank you, Grandma, for giving me the strength to continue. No matter how dark the road may be, the light will always find its way.”

EPISODE 7: The Awakening of Hope

The House of Hope was alive with activity. Every corner vibrated with laughter, music, and new stories of resilience. Rejoice had managed to transform that dark space into a beacon for those searching for light.

One morning, while organizing a meeting with the volunteers, she received an unexpected letter. It came from an international organization recognizing her work and offering financial support to expand the shelter.

The news spread quickly. For Rejoice, it was a clear sign that her mission was growing—that the scars she carried were no longer a limit but a bridge.

However, not everything was perfect. Some members of the community still looked at her with suspicion, unable to overcome the prejudice and stigma she had carried all her life.

One night, upon returning to the shelter, she found graffiti on the wall: “Monster. You don’t deserve help.”

Rejoice felt that familiar pain, but this time she did not allow it to crush her.

The next day, she gathered the girls and the volunteers.

“This is not just an attack on me,” she said firmly. “It is a reminder that there is still much to do. But every time they try to put out our light, we will ignite an even stronger flame.”

Blessing raised her hand and said:

“Dr. Rejoice, I want to help too. I want every girl to know she can be strong, no matter what people say.”

Rejoice embraced her.

“That’s right, Blessing. Together we are unstoppable.”

With the support of the international organization, the House of Hope opened a new wing dedicated to emotional rehabilitation and education for victims of abuse throughout the region.

Rejoice was happy, but she knew her greatest triumph was not the building or the funding. It was seeing each girl rise, heal, and shine with her own light.

One afternoon, as she wrote in her journal, she found a phrase that summarized everything:

“Scars tell stories. Ours speak of battle, resilience, and above all, hope.”

And that hope, now, was stronger than ever.

EPISODE 8: Rebirth and Legacy

The sun rose timidly over Aba as Rejoice walked through the halls of the expanded House of Hope. Now, the shelter not only housed girls but also offered workshops, psychological support, and a school reintegration program for hundreds of abuse victims throughout the region.

Every step she took was a reminder of all she had overcome. The face marked by burns was no longer a symbol of pain, but of victory.

That morning, a special ceremony gathered the community, volunteers, and local authorities to officially inaugurate the new wing.

The mayor took the microphone and said with pride:

“Rejoice has not only healed her own soul, but she has transformed the lives of hundreds. This is a tribute to her courage, her resilience, and her unbreakable love.”

Rejoice stepped onto the stage, and with tears in her eyes, she spoke:

“When I was a child, life struck me with cruelty. I lost my face, my childhood, my confidence. But here, in this house, I have found a family, a mission, a purpose. Each girl who walks through these doors teaches me that pain is not the end—it is the beginning of a story of hope.”

When she finished, she walked among the girls playing in the garden—some now smiling, others with dry tears on their faces—all of them full of life.

Epilogue: The Legacy of Rejoice

Years later, Rejoice’s story became an inspiration for an entire country. Books were written, documentaries were filmed, and similar programs were established in other regions.

She herself traveled the world to share her experience, proving that human dignity does not lie in appearance, but in the strength of the spirit.

Rejoice never forgot her roots or those who helped her along the way. She kept alive the memory of her grandmother, of Zina, of Justin, and of every girl who had found in the darkness a reason to keep going.

Her scarred face told the story of a burned child, yes, but also of a woman who, with every act of love, rebuilt her world.

And so, in every corner where a silenced voice begins to be heard, in every heart that refuses to give up, lives the true legacy of Rejoice: the hope that rises from the fire.