mother

MOTHER

"Why are you so quiet now? You used to be so happy and cheerful," my mother asked, her voice soft but laced with confusion, her eyes locked onto mine as if searching for the person I used to be.

"I'm just a bit tired, Mom. Nothing else," I replied, keeping my tone light, trying to sound unbothered even though my chest felt like it was carrying bricks.

"Okay," she said, her expression unreadable. But just seconds later, her tone shifted, sharp and scolding. "I just found out you only scored 80 marks on your test. Why can't you do better? I expected more from you. Don’t you dare disappoint me in front of our relatives."

Her disappointment settled in the air like a thick fog. It clung to me, suffocating. The quick shift from concern to criticism wasn’t new. It happened often. Too often.

"I'm trying, Mom. Next time, I’ll definitely get higher marks," I responded, the words barely leaving my lips. They sounded rehearsed, hollow, just like every other time I had to say them. I was tired of this performance, tired of this loop that never seemed to end.

"If I don't see an improvement in your grades, I'm taking away your books."

My heart skipped a beat. Of all things, not that. Not my books. They were my escape, the only thing that ever made sense in a world that constantly demanded too much.

"Mom, I will do better, I promise. Please don’t take my books away," I said quickly, panic rushing into my voice like a flood. My fingers fidgeted at my sides as I waited for her to say something else, to soften, but she just walked away.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the floor, then slowly made my way to my room.

The lights were off. The curtains were pulled shut, keeping the sunlight out like it didn’t belong. Papers littered the bed and the floor. Some were filled with formulas, others with sketches, poetry, thoughts I couldn't say out loud.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Then I walked over to my desk, pulled out my diary, and grabbed the same black pen I always used.

The first stroke of the pen calmed something in me. Writing helped me process everything I couldn’t tell anyone. Drawing helped me release what my words couldn’t carry. Here, in this silence, I wasn’t judged. I wasn’t compared. I was just me.

My diary had become my friend, my listener, my mirror. It knew about the pressure, the fear of failing, the way I longed for approval but dreaded the expectations that came with it.

I wrote about the test. About how I had studied, how I had tried, but how my mind just froze the minute I sat down. I wrote about the weight of hearing I had disappointed her again. And then I sketched a small figure sitting alone, surrounded by shadows, but holding a book like it was a lifeline.

That was me.

Time passed. I didn’t know how long. But eventually, the writing soothed my pulse and quieted my mind.

So my day ended not with laughter, not with validation, but in silence, in a dark room lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the comfort of pages filled with ink.

My room was not perfect. But it was mine.

And in that space, I was free to be everything I couldn’t be out there.

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