It was a stormy, rainy night. Drops of water tapped against the window, soft and steady, like a strange kind of lullaby. The air inside the room was thick with pain. A woman was screaming—loud and broken—her voice cracking like glass as it filled the space. Her body twisted on white sheets, soaked with sweat and fear. One of her hands gripped someone else's tightly, hard enough to leave behind a red mark. She was pushing, shaking, using every last ounce of strength left in her body.
And then…Something changed. Something small. Something new.Me.
I didn't understand anything. I couldn't speak. I couldn't see clearly. I didn't know who I was. I didn't even know I existed. But I was there. And everything around me was loud, cold, and strange.
The woman—the one who brought me into this world—lay still afterward. Her face was pale. Her cheeks wet with tears. A shaky sigh slipped from her lips and disappeared into the silence. Her eyes didn't look at me. Her arms didn't reach out. They couldn't. She just stared blankly into space, and then her eyelids closed slowly like a curtain falling. Her body sank into stillness. She had nothing left to give.
Outside the room, people waited. They weren't happy. There were no smiles. No congratulations. No joy. Only silence, tension… disappointment.
There were four of them.
My father—angry even when nothing had happened. His voice was always raised, full of blame and rage. A man who hit first and spoke later. His fury was his language.
Then there were two boys. Jami was seventeen. He was the favorite. The golden one. The only one allowed to dream of a life outside this house. He wore the father's voice like a second skin—sharp, mocking, cruel.The other, Kupa, was fourteen. He couldn't walk. His legs didn't work, so wheels carried him where his feet could not. He had a gentleness inside, I could feel it—but it was buried under shame and silence, crushed by the weight of our father's shadow.
My mother… she was there too. But she was not soft. Not safe. Not someone to run to. She defended the man who hurt her. She took his side even when his hands left bruises. Her love for him was blind and quiet and dangerous.
And then there was the oldest in the house—grandma. She was from my mother's side. She had lost her sight in a car crash. The accident had taken her eyes, but not her pride. She only lived with us because she had given all her savings to the man of the house. Bought her place in our rotting home.
A few days passed. Then we left the hospital. No car came. No family greeted us. My mother had to walk all the way home, carrying me in one arm and her pain in the other. Her body was still torn, still aching, but no one cared. She limped forward like she always had—alone.
When we reached the gate, we found grandma lying on the ground, her hands stretched out like she had been waiting for hours. The gate was locked. She had fallen. My mother tried to lift her, but she was still weak, still stitched together from inside. One hand held me. The other trembled as it reached for grandma. She said nothing. Didn't ask why no one helped. She just went inside. Quietly.
The house was cold. Silent. Broken. The walls creaked. The paint peeled. The windows whined when the wind passed through them. It had once belonged to the father's father. Now it barely stood. Like all of us inside it.
She placed me on the edge of a bed, the sheets thin and scratchy. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. She had to cook. Serve. Pretend like she wasn't bleeding. Pretend she wasn't tired. Pretend like nothing had changed. Because even now—after all that—she was still expected to act like a maid. A servant. A woman without a voice.
The sky outside darkened. Shadows crept into corners. The door slammed open. He was home.
My father walked in, rage already twisting his face. Maybe something had gone wrong at work. Maybe nothing had. Either way, he stormed in, tossed himself onto the sagging sofa, opened a can of beer, and turned up the volume on the football game. Loud enough to drown out everything else.
Jami came next. He dropped his schoolbag without a word and disappeared upstairs. Grandma remained lying on her floor mat, unmoving. And my mother, without saying a thing, began preparing plates of food—one by one—for each of them. She carried them to their rooms, quietly, as if her footsteps didn't deserve to make noise.
No one thanked her. No one looked at her. It was expected. Normal. Routine.
After everyone had been fed, she came back to me. Her steps were heavy. Her eyes were dull. She sat beside me and rested a cold, shaking hand on my cheek. Thin and bony. No warmth in it.
She stared at my face. I didn't understand her expression. It wasn't love."Why are you… so ugly?" she whispered. "I just want to carve your eyes out."
Her voice wasn't angry. It was empty. Like she was talking to herself.
And that's how the years passed.
Six of them.
The world was cruel from the beginning. I was a shadow in this house. Unwanted. Unloved. The kids in the village ran away when they saw me. They threw stones. Called me cursed. Even the adults turned their backs, whispering things when they thought I couldn't hear.
Father glared at me like I was the reason his life fell apart. No one ever told me why I was hated. Why I was feared.
Until one day, I saw myself in the mirror.
My eyes. They weren't like theirs. One was brown. The other, blue. Strange. Unnatural. A mistake. They said people like me were monsters. They said I didn't belong. And I believed them.
One night, after another silent dinner, Father leaned over and spat his words at me through beer-stained breath."I've raised you for six years without complaining. That's enough. You're old enough now. Start helping around the house."
I looked at him. At the man everyone obeyed.
And I realized—I would have to obey too. Just like Mom.