Two months later, the house had changed.
Not just in sound, but in spirit.
The laughter that used to echo through its walls had long faded, like an old song no one dared to hum. The photos on the wall still smiled, but they felt like lies. My mother was still there — in flesh — but she was slowly becoming a ghost in her own home.
She started leaving.
Not once or twice. But often. And for long.
Sometimes days, sometimes nights.
She said she had to "go and come back."
But the only thing that ever came back… was her sorrow.
She would cry. Quietly. Thinking we couldn't hear her.
But I heard her.
I always did.
She would murmur prayers into her pillow at night — desperate, shaky prayers. Words I didn't understand but pain I could feel.
And in her absence, we were left with him.
Our stepbrother — her son from my mum first marriage.
He wasn't cruel, but he wasn't warm either.
He didn't know how to care for children like me and my little brother. We were two tiny shadows he didn't ask for, two broken pieces left behind by a mother still breaking.
He fed us when he remembered.
He watched us when it was convenient.
He spoke only when necessary.
And so we grew… not with toys and kisses, but with silence and guessing.
There were days I would just sit with my baby brother, brushing his soft hair while he slept, whispering stories into his ears — the same stories Daddy used to tell me.
Sometimes I made up lies, saying Daddy was coming home soon.
Sometimes I believed them too.
---
There was one night I'll never forget.
It was raining — the loud kind of rain that slapped the roof like punishment. Our stepbrother had put my brother to sleep and left to sleep.
That night, I waited. For my mum. For someone. For anything.
And then… I heard it.
The sound of keys scratching the door, struggling to fit. The door creaked open and there she was — soaked, shaking, eyes swollen.
She didn't say a word.
She dropped to the floor just by the door, her hands trembling as she clutched her wrapper. I watched her from the dark corner of the room. I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just… watched.
Then I heard her whisper something.
I don't remember the full words, but I know it sounded like a prayer laced with despair.
A kind of begging — not to a man, not to the world, but to the sky itself.
"God, are You listening at all? What did I do wrong?"
And that's when I knew…
She was breaking.
Not in front of crowds. Not dramatically. But in small, private moments when she thought no one could see.
But I saw.
I was just a little girl. But I knew what it meant to be tired of life.
I wanted to hug her. I wanted to ask what was wrong.
But children like me… we were taught silence.
So I went to my brother, curled up beside him, and closed my eyes.
That night, the house didn't just feel cold —
It felt like it was disappearing.
Like all the love that ever lived there was slowly leaking out of the roof, dripping with the rain.