I stand in the middle of a field, the wind clawing at my flesh, its sharp blades scarring my paralyzed body. The pain, non-existent it must be a dream.
Before me looms a house—my home, sturdy in its familiarity. But as I watch, the sky darkens. Clouds gather in the distance, thick and bruised, swallowing the last traces of sunlight. Casting ominous shadows on the once cheerful facade.
The storm comes suddenly.
Rain lashes the ground, angry and unrelenting, soaking the earth in its fury. Thunder shatters the silence, a warning. Lightning carves the sky in fractured veins, illuminating my home in flickering glimpses—once safe, now at the mercy of the tempest.
And then, they appear.
On one side, my mother clings to the windows, her fingers digging into the frame, her body pressed against the walls as if sheer willpower could keep it standing. Her face is taut with desperation, her lips moving, though the wind steals her words.
On the other side, my father pushes. Not with hands, but with presence, with force—the weight of his dismissal pressing against the walls, against the foundation, against the years that have held it all together.
The house groans beneath its struggle, splintering at its edges, the glass shattering like fragments of forgotten promises.
I try to move, maybe I could be beside her helping to hold the walls…Am I-- allowed to intervene?
I try to scream. I am scared, what if I make it worse?
It is their problem. They need to communicate.
I am a silent observer, watching the storm rage between them. Watching our home—their marriage—wither under the weight of battles neither will win.
Then, like all storms, it ends.
Silence.
The wreckage remains—walls cracked, windows shattered, the echoes of their war embedded in the ruins. And they are gone.
The ruins start sinking I guess after destruction it should be creation. Will our home be rebuilt? Won't it? It must—it has to.
NO—I am sinking.
All that remains of me is from my chest up. My arms row against the pull, frantic, desperate. The ground—no, not ground—the liquid earth swallows me inch by inch, dragging me deeper with every movement.
I fight harder. My muscles burn, and my breath shortens.
Move. Keep moving. Stay above it.
But the faster I row, the faster I sink.
The weight presses in—cool, consuming, inescapable. My limbs slow, exhaustion seeping into my bones.
I am tired.
Sigh…
I let go.
The soft, cool earth embraces me, cradling my body like water, like something gentle. It is strange, unfamiliar, almost welcoming.
I could live here.
I wake, gasping.
The dream clings to me like sweat on dry skin. My sweat drained out of me, washing my covers in fear.
My chest tightens with its truth— the message too cruel, but there was to be another way.
I sit up, staring at the darkness of my room, at the ceiling that still stands above me, at the walls that still surround me. But inside, everything is different.
The weight of realization settles deep.
How do I know that I love you? When it comes to romantic love, the answer feels simple—my body reacts in strange, unfamiliar ways, signalling emotions that I cannot ignore. A quickened pulse or a stolen breath.
But when it comes to family, love becomes complicated. How do I decipher it? What signs should I look for? Is it normal to love and hate the same person?
Mother and brothers, I know I love you. I have shown you my truth, my unfiltered self—the sloth you see is my real form. With you, I am safe in my imperfections.
But father, do I love you? I have been obedient, never questioning your responsibilities or actions. Yet love—I don't think I feel it for you. I am confused. What am I supposed to feel toward you? I dislike you, often.
And yet, at times, your actions make me hesitate. They create the illusion that you care, but it feels hollow. Your concern seems transactional, an investment from which you expect returns.
You are a sponsor—nothing more. That is the role you have chosen, and that is where it stops. You say you care—but who, exactly, do you care for? We both know the answer. Yourself.
So how is it that I know this? Because I have seen it, lived it, felt it.
You indulged in pleasures. You benefited from the services. And when a pregnancy surfaced, you rejoiced—another stock added to your portfolio. From five stocks, you attended two baptisms, some birthdays, and a handful of milestones during your stay.
When it came to education, you weren't strict. You praised us when we passed and advised us when we failed. But your greetings were hollow, your smiles never touched your eyes. You were physically present but emotionally absent. Your words of praise were weightless, your advice empty. You were there—but never truly with us.
And that's what confuses me the most. How can someone be so close yet feel so far away?
When resentment clouded my heart, your actions seemed insincere, your presence distant. But when my anger faded, I saw another side of you. Your smiles felt warmer. Your greetings sounded genuine. Your words, somehow, are sincere. It was as if you were two different people. And I was caught in between, trying to reconcile the versions of you.
Are you truly a father if you listen to outsiders over your own blood? If their voices drown out ours?
I remember everything. Every promise you broke. Every time you chose others over us. Every dismissal of our feelings. Every time you failed to stand for us.
But I also remember the moments of kindness. The rare expressions of love, given in your own way.
Does scattered kindness outweigh a lifetime of absence?
Who do I blame? You—or the mother who never taught you how to love?
How long must I wait for you to change? To learn what love is. I chase transformation like a shadow—always reaching, never grasping. Hope rises, then crumbles into dust.
But patience frays when I recall the wounds you left behind. The insults, the bruises—not just on skin, but on trust. It makes me question every act of kindness. Was it real? Or is it just another illusion?
Your kindness was selective, appearing only when I needed something for school. Was I blinding myself with the allure of financial support?
As the days pass, I wrestle with these feelings, trying to make sense of the chaos. And in the stillness of the night, when the world sleeps, I hold onto hope.
Hope that one day, the silence will soften. The wounds will close.
Hope that love will arrive—not as a passing guest, but as something that stays.