Many people ask,
"How did you know he was your stepbrother?"
And I always smile — not because it's funny,
but because the truth is… I always knew.
Even before I had the words for it, I knew.
I was a curious child, born with questions dancing in my chest.
After my father's death, my mother changed.
She became distant.
Not cruel — just… far away, like her body was here,
but her soul was still standing at the burial ground.
She thought I didn't know what had happened.
She assumed I was too young to understand death.
But I had read newspapers at age two.
I understood pain long before I had ever fallen down.
She tried to protect me with silence,
but silence is a loud language when you're a child who listens.
---
It started when my stepbrother — the boy I believed was my big brother —
would call a strange man "Daddy" in my mother's presence.
They would laugh together. The man would pat his head.
They had a bond. A story I was not part of.
I remember asking,
"Mummy, is that Daddy?"
Her face would go blank.
And then that same scary eye would flash in my direction.
The one that stopped me from asking further.
I hated that eye.
It made me feel like I was trouble — for simply being curious.
Like my thoughts were sins.
Meanwhile, my little brother would toddle up to her,
and she'd smile. She'd carry him.
He'd rest his head on her chest while I stood like a stranger beside them.
And in that moment,
I realized something sad and strange:
> There was love in the house,
but maybe I was the only one it wasn't wrapped around.
---
The years rolled forward like waves I had no control over.
At age 9, my mum told us we were visiting her village.
She packed our bags and said it was just a trip —
a small visit to see our grandparents.
I believed her.
We took the morning bus and got to the village at night.
I still remember how the sky looked —
a deep, quiet purple with a shy moon watching us.
We met our grandparents for the first time.
They were kind. They welcomed us.
I met cousins who ran barefoot and free,
an uncle who always smelled of snuff and palm wine,
and chickens that didn't know boundaries.
For the first time in a long time, I smiled genuinely.
It felt like a storybook beginning.
But no story ever stays sweet for too long — at least the world didn't like to see me smile for long
---
That night, while we slept, my mother left.
She didn't leave a note.
She didn't kiss us goodbye.
She didn't even wake us.
She took my stepbrother with her and returned to the city.
When I woke up and didn't see her,
my heart sank like a stone in deep water.
I ran outside. I asked everyone where she went.
No one answered at first.
They all just gave me those same eyes — the ones full of pity.
Later, my grandmother said,
"She'll come back."
But she didn't.
She left us behind —
me and my younger brother —
like leftovers she couldn't carry.
And that's when the "bad girl" was born.
Not a thief. Not a liar.
Just a girl who stopped believing promises.
She made me to start fearing silence, my own peace.
---
I started questioning everything.
Why was I the one left behind?
Why did she take my stepbrother and not us?
Was I too loud? Too smart?
Or maybe too much like my father — a reminder she couldn't bear?
I watched other children run to their mothers after school,
and I'd turn around hoping,
just maybe — today would be the day she returns.
But days turned to weeks.
Weeks to months.
And I was still there.
---
I remember one evening, sitting under the mango tree,
my younger brother asleep beside me.
I traced the lines in the dirt and whispered,
"What did I do wrong?"
That was the first time I didn't cry.
Because even my tears had gotten tired.
---