Oh… I woke up at five again today....
I haven't been able to sleep in for over forty years. As far as I can remember, I've always woken up early—first for the babies, then for the school mornings, then for work. Even now, when no one needs me right away, my eyes open before the sun. It's like my body doesn't know how to rest anymore.
The morning light was soft as it slipped through the lace curtains. The apartment was silent—not the comforting kind of silence, but the kind that feels heavy.
I stayed in bed a little longer, just lying there, listening to the stillness. The space beside me was already cold. My husband had gone out early again. He usually does these days. I don't even ask where he goes anymore. I just let the silence sit beside me.
When I finally got up, my footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty apartment. There was a time when this place was full of life. Children laughing, running down the hallway, calling out "Omma!" every few minutes.
I used to rush from room to room, always doing something, always needed. Now, it's just me and the quiet.
I passed by the dresser and stopped to look at the old family photo. The kids were smiling—frozen in a moment of joy. They're grown now, busy with their own lives. They don't know how much of myself I poured into them.
I used to tell them, "Be happy." I always said it for them. But maybe… maybe I was really saying it for myself.
In the kitchen, the kettle hissed as if impatient with me. I filled it with water and waited for the steam to rise. I always drink tea before work. Tea before bed, too. It's part of my routine.
Something steady to hold on to. But today, even that felt different. The comfort felt thinner, like it was wearing away.
I went through the motions—made the bed, wiped down the counter, folded the same small day into its place. I thought about my in-laws next door. They were probably already up, maybe waiting for me to bring breakfast like I usually do.
I knew I would go, smile, ask how they slept, pretend everything was okay. I've done it for years. For them. For my husband. For the world. That small, polite smile—I wear it like a uniform.
The tea was ready. Chamomile. It's supposed to be calming. The mug was warm in my hands, but the warmth didn't reach inside.
I stood there quietly, staring out the window.
Lately, I've been asking myself questions I never used to.
Who am I now?
I'm someone's wife.
Someone's mother.
The helper in the background. Always here, always giving. But I used to have dreams—didn't I?
I think I did. It's just been so long, I can't quite remember what they were.
I closed my eyes and took a sip.
I tried to listen—not to the sounds around me, but to myself. Just to see if there was anything left inside. And for a moment, something small stirred.
A thought, quiet and soft: What if I did something just for me?Just once?
The thought didn't stay long. Like always, I let it go. I took another sip of tea—it was already lukewarm. Then I turned to the window again.
The sun was higher now, spilling a bit of gold across my shoulders. A new day had begun. Just like every day before.
But somewhere deep inside,
something tiny flickered.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Still alive.