The days that followed tried to settle into a rhythm. Mama would wake before the sun, dress in the pale light, and press a kiss to my forehead before tiptoeing out to the hospital. I'd lie there in silence, cradling Lala beneath the sheets, listening to the tailors argue and the birds scream against the morning. School was tolerable—loud, colorful, unfamiliar. Lisa made it less lonely. I think she liked being my protector, loud and bold where I was small and quiet. I let her.
But peace, like every good thing in our lives, was a visitor, not a tenant.
It started with a knock.
Not the gentle kind. The kind that rattles windows and makes you freeze in place.
I was doing homework—well, staring at it—when the first knock came. Three sharp bangs that echoed through the hallway. Mama's hands, busy washing dishes, stilled in the water. The silence that followed was too thick. She wiped her hands slowly, walked to the door, and peeked through the crack in the curtain.
Her whole body went stiff. I watched the life drain from her face.
She didn't open the door.
He came back the next day. And the next. Shouting this time. Pounding the door. Calling her a whore. A thief. A liar. The names burned through the wood like acid. Our neighbors stopped pretending not to hear. Curtains moved. Whispers spread. Mama stood by the door with a knife in her hand once. She didn't cry. But her lips moved silently, like she was praying to no one in particular.
He showed up at her work. Threw things. Broke a mug. Security dragged him out. But that only made him louder.
Then he came to my school.
Three times.
The first time, it was just him. Sweating, fuming, demanding to see me. The teachers tried to calm him down, but he shouted so loud it echoed through the whole compound. I watched from a classroom window as he paced like a caged animal. He never saw me. But that night, I couldn't sleep.
The second time, he brought his new wife.
I was called to the principal's office. My chest was tight the moment I heard my name. My legs moved on their own, but my heart begged me not to go. And there he was—grinning like the world owed him something. Standing next to a woman I had never seen, who smiled with perfectly painted lips, like I was some doll she was here to collect.
"This is your stepmother," he said. "Isn't she beautiful?"
I stared at them both. My tongue was stone. My arms wrapped tighter around Lala, hidden in my schoolbag.
He tried to reach for me. "You're my daughter. I have every right to see you."
The principal intervened. Security was called. Again.
The third time, he waited by the school gate.
He didn't scream. He didn't yell. He just stood there, watching. His eyes tracking every child like a hawk. When he saw me, his smile stretched like rubber. I froze. Lisa grabbed my hand and pulled me back inside. They had to sneak me out through a side gate.
I didn't speak for the rest of the day. I couldn't. The fear swallowed my voice.
You see, I wasn't just scared of him. I was scared of everything.
Of loud voices. Of footsteps. Of doors slamming. Of shadows that moved too quickly. I flinched when teachers raised their voices. I jumped when someone dropped a book. I avoided eye contact. I hid in corners. I stopped raising my hand in class. I forgot how to play.
Watching Mama being hit over and over again had carved fear into my bones. It taught me that noise was danger, that change was punishment, that speaking might get you hurt. It taught me that silence was survival.
And slowly, I stopped believing I mattered.
I became a quiet ghost in the back of every room.
Mama tried to act strong. But each of his visits chipped away at her. She'd come home with trembling hands and forced smiles. She apologized more. She hugged me tighter at night. She started sleeping in her uniform, just in case we had to run again.
The apartment became a trap. A ticking clock. We held our breath, waiting for the next knock. The next scream. The next break.
I stopped dreaming.
Because dreams are for children who feel safe.
And I wasn't that child.
Not anymore.