I woke up to the sound of my aunt shouting, her voice piercing through the morning haze.

“A simple hot water you can’t make, and you need to ask that for us?”

she said to my mom, frustration dripping from each word. Even as a child, I could feel the tension crackling in the air, a familiar discord that seeped into the fabric of our home.

As I lay there in bed, memories washed over me like waves, each one tinged with the complex emotions of childhood. I remembered the mornings filled with the scent of breakfast and the sound of laughter, but they often came with an undercurrent of strife. My aunt's voice had a way of overshadowing the joy, transforming it into something heavy and suffocating.

I peered through the half-open door, catching a glimpse of my mother’s tired face, her shoulders tense as she stood at the sink. I wanted to rush to her side, to tell her that she was doing her best, that I admired her strength. But I felt small, caught between the demands of an adult world and the innocence I clung to.

In that moment, I remembered the countless times I had tried to help, fumbling with simple tasks, wanting to be useful. My aunt’s sharp words echoed in my mind, a reminder of how little I seemed to accomplish. It stung, the realization that in her eyes, I often fell short.

With a deep breath, I pushed myself up and made my way to the kitchen. The clatter of dishes filled the air, mingling with the

remnants of my aunt’s tirade.

“Auntie, I can help,”

I said, my voice trembling slightly as I stepped into the room.

She turned to me, surprise flickering across her face before quickly morphing back into annoyance.

“You should know how to do these things by now,”

she replied, her tone harsh yet somehow dismissive.

I felt a wave of shame wash over me, the weight of her expectations pressing down. All I wanted was to prove that I could contribute, to show that I wasn’t just a child but someone who could take on responsibilities. Yet, the reality was that I was still learning, still growing.

As I stood there, a silent witness to the clash of voices, I began to understand that this wasn’t just about hot water or household chores. It was about the complexities of family dynamics, the unspoken pressures that came with love and care. My childhood was a tapestry woven with threads of both warmth and conflict, a mix that would shape my journey in ways I couldn’t yet comprehend.

That morning marked the beginning of my awareness—an understanding that life was filled with challenges, but also the promise of resilience. Little did I know, these early experiences would become the foundation upon which I would build my strength, navigating a world that often felt chaotic and unkind.

And unloved