The day the kids came is a day I will never forget. It was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut deep inside me in a way that silence sometimes does. The house felt different from the moment they walked in. They came with their bags, their voices, their laughter, their bright eyes, and the way they clung to each other like they already knew they were safe. They looked like family. My family, but not really mine.
I remember standing by the wall, near the doorway, while they hugged my mom. She opened her arms wide, her face glowing in a way I hadn't seen in so long. Her smile was so big, so soft, so warm. I wanted that smile. I wanted it to be for me. But it wasn't. It was for them. She called their names like she had been waiting all her life to finally say them out loud.
They laughed with her, hugged her, leaned into her like they had known her forever. It was like a puzzle clicking into place. And I stood there, watching, wishing, and at the same time breaking. I felt like a stranger in my own home.
They didn't do anything wrong. The kids were just… kids. They were polite, they were happy, they were excited. They didn't even look at me in a mean way. But the way they blended into my mom's arms, the way my stepdad's voice on the phone that night sounded so full of joy because his kids had arrived, it made me feel small. It made me feel like I had been waiting all my life for something that was never mine to have.
When dinner came that night, I sat at the table with them. The kids told stories, my mom laughed, my stepdad's voice came through the phone again, loud on speaker as he laughed with them. I picked at my food, my fork heavy in my hand. I felt invisible. I felt like a shadow at the edge of their light. Nobody told me to leave, but I didn't feel welcome either.
My chest hurt, but I smiled a little, because I didn't want anyone to see. I learned a long time ago how to hide pain. You smile, you nod, you make yourself small, and you keep your secrets safe. But deep inside, it burned.
That night, when I lay in bed, I could still hear their laughter in the living room. I pressed the pillow over my ears, but it didn't help. My mom's voice was loud, full of love. She sounded alive in a way she never did with me. With me, she was always tired, always scolding, always impatient. With them, she was gentle. With them, she was the mother I always wanted.
I cried silently. Tears sliding down my face, soaking the pillow. I didn't make a sound. Nobody came to check. Nobody noticed. I was alone in a house that was supposed to be mine too.
The next day, it was the same. They sat with her on the couch, their heads close together, flipping through old pictures my stepdad had sent. My mom's hand rested on one of the girls' knees. I couldn't remember the last time her hand rested on mine like that. I walked past them, but nobody stopped me. I went to my room, closed the door, and stared at the ceiling.
Everything felt heavy. My body. My chest. My mind. I kept asking myself why. Why did I always have to be the outsider? Why was I never enough? Why did it seem like she finally had the family she wanted, and I wasn't part of it?
The worst part was that I loved her. Even when she hurt me with her words. Even when she didn't understand me. Even when she looked at me like I was a burden. I still loved her. And that love made it hurt more. Because love makes rejection sharper.
I noticed every little thing. How she cooked more often now. How she laughed more. How the house smelled of fresh food, of joy, of something new. I noticed how she looked proud when she walked with them outside. Like she was finally complete. And I noticed how nobody asked me how I felt. Nobody cared if I was okay.
I wasn't okay. But I stayed silent. Always silent.
Every night, I curled into myself, clutching my chest, trying to hold my broken pieces together. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. I wanted to tell her, "I feel left out. I feel like nothing to you." But I couldn't. Because even if I said it, I knew what she would say. She would call me ungrateful. She would say I was jealous. She would remind me that my stepdad was the one paying my school fees. That I should be thankful. That I should try harder to blend in.
But how do you blend in when you feel like your soul doesn't fit? How do you sit at a table and laugh when your heart is breaking? How do you open yourself when you're still bleeding from wounds no one else can see?
The truth was, I couldn't.
And so I drifted. From her. From them. From myself... I didn't even know where I stood anymore..