I went to my room and opened the small wooden cupboard where I kept all my old toys and photographs—little pieces of my childhood I turned to whenever I wanted to relive happy moments.
But the moment my fingers touched them, the happiness refused to come.
Only the haunting memories did.
I picked up my fuzzy old teddy bear. Everyone has a special bond with their favorite toy—mine was precious too, but the memory attached to it was far from sweet.
It pulled me back to my last birthday.
My mom had gifted me this teddy bear—soft, warm, with a tiny blue ribbon around its neck. My dad had given me a gold chain. I thanked him politely, but the moment I held the teddy, I ran to my mom, hugged it tight, and whispered, "I love it!"
After that, the teddy became my closest friend.
My dad's smile faded.
He felt ignored… maybe even hurt.
I was just a child.
At that age, toys feel more valuable than jewelry.
My mom understood that—that's why she chose the teddy.
But my dad saw it differently.
He felt like he didn't understand me at all.
So he said sarcastically,
"Well, that teddy was also bought with my money, my dear baby."
Back then, sarcasm meant nothing to me.
So I answered honestly,
"Even if it's your money… she thought to give it to me."
My mom rushed to me, covering my mouth gently, trying to stop me.
But it was too late.
I didn't know my innocent reply would leave a mark.
But it did.
That night, we never cut the cake.
My birthday ended in silence and a heavy, invisible storm.
My mom's eyes were wet, but she kept blinking fast, refusing to cry on my birthday. She knelt beside me and whispered,
"Dad had an urgent meeting, dear. Don't worry."
A lie.
An attempt to protect me.
We cut the cake with our aunty instead. She tried to fill the quiet with silly jokes and warm smiles. She kept looking at my mom with eyes full of strength—eyes that told a story only adults understand.
Back then, I didn't get the meaning behind that look.
Now I do.
It was a look shared between women who carry silent battles.
When the celebration ended, and night took over, my dad eventually came home. My mom made him dinner, and he ate in silence. I watched from behind my bedroom door—my usual hiding spot whenever their world fell apart.
Mom spoke softly, "We cut the cake."
He just nodded.
"Where did you go?" she asked.
"Wherever happiness exists," he replied.
Those words hit like a stone.
Mom's face broke, just a little. Aunty stepped in quietly and said,
"I took Ray to my home today."
My mom nodded, grateful for her presence.
When I heard aunty's footsteps coming toward my room, I rushed to my bed and pretended to sleep. She lifted me onto her shoulder gently and carried me away.
After that, I remember nothing.
Maybe it's better that way.
The next morning, aunty brought me home again. She looked at my mom, raised her eyebrows slightly, asking silently, Are you okay?
My mom smiled and nodded.
My dad sat on the couch, watching a cricket match as if nothing had happened.
That's when I saw it—a small scratch on my mom's hand.
I knew immediately:
He had hit her.
My heart tightened, but I stayed quiet. I was too young to understand, yet old enough to feel the fear.
As I crossed the couch, my dad suddenly scooped me up, teasing me, making me smile. He was always a good father to me.
But he was never a good partner to my mom.
Only now, looking back, everything makes sense.
The memory faded, and I returned to the present.
I set the teddy bear down gently, as if letting go of the pain tied to it.
From the kitchen, aunty called out,
"Ray, dinner's ready!"
I took a deep breath and walked toward the warmth of her voice, leaving the shadows of my memories behind—at least for now.