Chapter 5 - CHAPTER 5: THE HOUSE WITHOUT GRANDMOTHER

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After my grandmother passed away, I no longer knew where mornings began.

There was no sound of the stove being lit, no hand stroking my head, no gentle words saying, "I'll be home a little late." Everything was still the same old house, yet it felt as if someone had taken away its breath.

I woke up very early, out of habit. But when I opened my eyes, there was no sound at all. I lay still for a long time, staring at the tin roof, listening to the last drops of last night's rain falling softly.

I whispered,

"Grandma…"

No one answered.

Only then did I remember—

she was gone.

After the funeral, my mother came back to live with me for good. My stepfather came with her. From that day on, the house was no longer quiet like before, but it wasn't warmer either.

My mother worked a lot. My stepfather left early and came home late. I was alone at home most of the time. Sometimes I went out collecting recyclable bottles, fallen seeds, or almond leaves—sometimes even wandering around the cemetery.

When I came home, the old dog was still there, but it was growing weaker. I still lay beside it, but it felt different. It no longer had the strength to stand up and wag its tail when I called.

Meals were no longer like my grandmother's meals.

My mother cooked quickly. My stepfather ate quickly. No one talked much. I ate slowly and was usually the last to finish. Some days, before I could finish eating, my mother would stand up to clear the table.

"Eat faster,"

she said.

I lowered my head and tried to eat more quickly.

I began to learn how to exist without drawing attention.

At home, I spoke little. At school, I was the same. I wasn't a child who cried often, but I watched people—very carefully. I learned to guess moods from eyes and tones of voice.

My stepfather never hit me.

He only spoke.

His words were never loud, but they were sharp enough for me to understand that I wasn't welcome.

"A girl like you, so gloomy—who would like that?"

"At home, learn to behave."

"Don't make a mess. It costs money."

I listened.

And I stayed silent.

Sometimes my mother looked at me for a long time, as if she wanted to say something. But in the end, she turned away. I didn't know what she was thinking—I only knew there was a thick distance between us.

One day, I had a fever.

I lay on the bed, my body burning. I didn't dare call out. I was afraid of being a burden. That evening, my mother noticed. She touched my forehead and sighed.

"If you're sick, you should say something,"

she said.

I wanted to say that I didn't dare to.

But I only nodded.

The sleepless nights began from then on.

I often lay awake staring at the ceiling. Images of my grandmother filled my mind—her hands, her voice. I was afraid of forgetting. I was afraid that one day, I wouldn't remember her face clearly anymore.

So I began to remember everything obsessively.

Every sentence.

Every look.

Even the smallest hurts.

I didn't know then that this habit of remembering was already changing me.

My stepfather drank often.

Whenever he came home drunk, he talked more. He never hit me, but his words were especially cutting. Once, he looked at me and sneered.

"You don't look like anyone in this family."

I didn't know who that "anyone" was.

But I knew I didn't belong.

My mother heard that and snapped back angrily,

"She's my child. Why does she need to look like anyone?"

Once—very rarely—I heard my mother crying in her room. I stood outside the door for a long time, clutching the hem of my shirt. I wanted to open the door, to hug her, but my feet wouldn't move.

I was afraid.

Afraid that if I went in, I would see a fragile mother—and I wouldn't know what to do with that fragility.

From the day my grandmother died, I grew up very quickly.

Not in body, but in mind.

I learned to give way. To avoid. To hide all my emotions inside. I no longer waited for comfort. I learned to endure on my own.

The old dog died not long after.

The day it died, I dug a small hole behind the house and buried it with my own hands. No one helped me. I worked very slowly, but I didn't cry. I thought that if I cried it all out now, there would be no tears left for later.

That night, I dreamed of my grandmother for the first time.

She sat on the front porch, smiling at me. She didn't say anything—just looked at me for a long time. I woke up with tears soaking my pillow.

I understood something very early:

I could only rely on myself.

And from that moment on, inside me began to form something quiet, yet enduring—

a will to survive.