Being the firstborn means becoming a foundation.
A leader. A blueprint. Someone your siblings will admire, imitate, and lean on long after they stop needing permission.
Every choice you make is never just yours- it carries the weight of everyone behind you.
There was a woman who understood that better than anyone.
She was an accomplished housewife married to a dull but respectable political man. She had a popular YouTube channel that inspired thousands- recipes, routines, smiling affirmations of domestic bliss.
To the world, she had everything: love, stability, respect.
Only she wasn't happy.
Dinner sat untouched on the table when her phone buzzed.
Running late again. Don't wait for me.
She didn't feel angry.
She had passed that stage of her life. She was in a different one now- a stage where, without pills, she couldn't function like a normal person.
Lately, even the pills had stopped working.
Therapy felt rehearsed, like a badly performed Shakespeare play. Every session predictable. Every reassurance hollow. Nothing reached the ache beneath her skin.
Once, it had been enough when her husband still lingered- when quality time existed. But that ended like a plane crash: sudden, violent, irreversible.
Then there was her work.
She became the envy of strangers, posting new content daily. Smiling. Performing. Creating beauty to drown the noise inside her head. It worked- only briefly.
The shadow always returned, heavier each time.
Eventually, her family intervened.
A baby will fix this, they said.
Motherhood will fill the gap.
They spoke of parenthood like a cure. A full-time occupation. A relentless cycle of emotion that leaves no room for emptiness, no space to feel lost.
No time to feel yourself.
It turned out she was barren.
That's what she told her husband, anyway.
The truth was simpler and far uglier.
She hated the idea of being a mother.
She had seen, firsthand, what parents could do to their children.
The damage.
The silence.
The scars.
She refused to drag an innocent soul into a life shaped by expectation and resentment.
She told her therapist once.
The response came smoothly, professionally:
Your feelings are valid. And your concern is exactly what would make you a great mother.
Bullshit.
She was broken.
Some days she felt light, happy as a bird. Other days, her heart sang praises to the devil.
There was no pattern.
No balance.
Then came the pull.
A tug deep in her soul- insistent, seductive. Calling her to act. To finally choose something for herself.
Her soul yearned for something dangerous. Something forbidden. Something she was terrified to name.
Something bigger than survival.
In her haze- needle still buried in her arm- she saw a figure emerge through her blurred vision.
A woman in black cloth.
Hovering.
"Are you here for me?" she asked, breathless, almost joyful. "Did you come to take me to the other side?"
The dark figure lowered herself to the floor and sat beside her in silence.
"What are you waiting for?" the woman whispered.
"I'm waiting for your soul to agree with you," the figure replied calmly.
The woman smiled, exhausted. "Just do it. Nothing is enough for this soul." She swallowed hard. "I tried everything to satisfy it."
"Are you sure?" the black-clothed woman asked softly.
Anger flared. "Of course I did!" she snapped as her body convulsed against the bathroom sink.
"No," the figure said gently. "You listened to everyone else. Just never to your soul." she added, "It wants closure."
Silence fell.
Tears streamed down the woman's face. "It's too late now, isn't it?" she cried. Alone.
The dark figure vanished just as the bathroom door opened.
Her husband rushed her to the hospital, shouting her name, gripping her hand.
And the soul- still restless- watched from somewhere far away.