I change out of my uniform, shaking off the weight of the day. The fabric clings briefly before surrendering to the familiar air of home.
The aroma reaches me before I step into the sitting room—bold, rich, unmistakable. Coffee, but not just any coffee. The scent of freshly roasted beans fills the air, smoke curling from the small pan as my mother stirs them over the heat, coaxing them to perfection.
The rhythm is familiar. She moves with precision, the same practiced hands that have done this for years. The roasting shifts from raw earthiness to deep, nutty warmth, filling the room with something that feels ancient.
She brews; I drink.
A routine.
Nothing more.
I take my usual seat—the sofa closest to her—as the first round lets out its first slow breath of steam. The hum of a half-watched series drones in the background.
She talks, as she always does. I listen. Not always attentively, but passively, the words flowing past like incense smoke.
But tonight, she hesitates before speaking.
A pause.
One moment stretching like steam before disappearing into the air.
Something in her gaze feels different. Like she is seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
And for the first time, I realize—she believes I am old enough.
Her voice starts slow.
At first, I think it will be the usual—the casual stories, the fleeting mother-daughter chatter that fills the silence between us.
But then I feel it.
The weight in her tone.
Heavy. Unravelling.
Something deeper than I asked for.
She speaks of the past. Of the struggles she carried, the burdens no one saw. Of pain—hers, this family's unspoken wounds.
I sip my coffee, listening. Really listening.
And suddenly, I feel it—the suffocating pull into something I never wanted to be part of.
Why now?
I never asked for this. I don't want their pain. I don't want their history. I don't want their expectations pressed onto me now—after all this time.
I don't understand her need to break the illusion of my perfect family.
I thought my family was normal—or at least normal enough.
I am not an orphan. Not a child raised by a single parent. Not torn between divorced homes.
I have both parents and siblings—but that does not mean ,we have love.
And yet, wasn't that enough?
I ignored my father. I ignored his family and their actions.
I ignored my mother's grief—not because I didn't see it, but because I chose not to carry it.
And now—now they ask me to be mature?
To be responsible. To help around the house. To guide my brothers. To be thoughtful of what little they give me.
But why now?
Why now, when they left me to my own devices for so long?
Why now, when they never asked me to be something before?
What do they expect me to become?
I sip my coffee, my fingers tightening around the cup.
Annoyance builds, creeping beneath my skin like something foreign. Like something being forced into me.
I don't want this. I don't want to be part of them. I don't want to be woven into their suffering.
I just want to live how I always have—distant, separate, untouched.
Why is that not enough?
Sigh…
I tried comforting her.
"The past is the past," I say. My voice is steady. Too steady. "You are stronger now. Forget it. Move forward."
She doesn't look at me.
She stirs the coffee, silent, her hands trembling just slightly.
"Everyone suffers, Mother. You are not alone."
The words taste wrong in my mouth.
She exhales. Soft, tired.
She wants to argue, but my silence becomes hers.
By our third round of coffee, my father had returned. My mother stayed silent. I controlled my anger. As usual, he sits on his sofa like a king on a stolen throne. He ordered his birth given servants to fetch the remote, his water, and his lunch. He ate like a starved lion in only five bites; he finished a plate that could feed my mother and me.
And then—my mother speaks.
Not in whispers. Not in restraint.
Like an injured serpent, she strikes—her words sharp, vile, full of anger.
No one expected her to speak her mind—for silence was her prison.
For the first time, I was asked to leave. Truthfully, there was no need to ask that of me. I have always returned to my sanctuary when he appears. He was my natural repellent. I don't even know him, he is an absent father. His return always meant money, not affection. His absence was natural. His presence, however, was invasive—spreading through the house like smoke, unwanted, suffocating.
My room was farthest from them, found at the end of the house. The door closed but I heard her, her insults, her anger, and her hate.
He didn't match her energy. He heard her. He laughed—not at her anger, but at her belief that words would ever matter.
He undermined her intelligence. He called her childish! What was he expecting? For he married a child. And she still is a child. She wasn't allowed to grow, encaged in a house left with her uncontained thoughts. She learned most from television series. She saw the love a wife and a husband had. The family built by love.
She tried to explain her pain and he told her "The door is there, you can leave. I won't stop you."
My silence never healed her. It only made her see him in me.