The Ordinary Day That Wasn't
When I opened my eyes, there was no hospital ceiling.
No broken bones.
No accident.
No truck.
I had only fainted.
Everything else — the foreign country, the confession, the transformation — it had been a dream born from exhaustion.
Reality was still the same cramped room.
The same workshop walls.
The same house full of unfinished conversations.
It has been a little over three months since my grandparents came to live with us.
The same grandparents who once cheated my parents out of our home.
The same house Papa built with uncle Richard .
Later, Peter uncle drove Grandma and Grandpa back to hometown.
The same hometown where, in old age, they now have no one properly caring for them.
After almost three years of distance, when they were eventually pushed out of that house too, Papa didn't hesitate.
Mr. Arlen to others.
Just Papa to me.
He brought them here.
To the workshop.
He rearranged everything and built a separate small room for them by adjusting whatever space we had.
Because no matter what had happened, he loved Grandma Arlen.
We all still carried resentment because grandma still loved and wished they would take them back to live with them .
Grandma loved Katherina and her children Peter and Jones.
We didn't talk much because each conversation ended with Katherina used to this for me ,no matter how much my mom did for grandma .
We didn't sit together and talked with them like we used to when visiting to hometown during festivals.
we all knew too well from the beginning about her favoritism towards Uncle Richard children.
But we never let them go hungry.
Joe — the small boy who helps around the workshop — often helped us feed them meals by bringing meals and water to them . sometimes I did too but it was rarely. For three months, we fed them quietly. Without discussion. Without drama.
That was our way.
Grandma Arlen had a habit.
All year round, she would say she wasn't feeling well.
Chest pain. Weakness. Breathlessness,burning sensations etc.
But she used to behave like that only when she was living with us. Even before we left the house, whenever she came from our hometown and Papa wanted her to stay with him for two months or so, she would say, "I'm not feeling well. I want to go live with Katherina in our hometown. She must be alone."
The day before yesterday, she said her chest hurt again. My cousin Dilen took her to the clinic. But there, she told the doctor the pain had already stopped.
When Mama found out she hadn't mentioned it properly, she asked her why.
Grandma said she was fine after the medicine.
She ate all her meals as usual.
So we thought it was another episode.
Uncle Richard never wanted to keep them.
And Grandma Arlen never preferred us either. She always favored Richard over Papa.
Still, Papa remained her son.
Every morning he would buy sugar-free biscuits and fruits for her. He reminded her to take her blood pressure medicine early. He showed his affection quietly — not in words, but in routine.
Yesterday at around 3:45 a.m., Grandma was again feeling unwell so,Papa went to check on her .
He does that — wakes up in the middle of the night to see if she needs anything.
He gave her tablets.
After sometime, she said she felt alright and fell asleep.
Morning came.
And with it, an argument.
Grandma was upset that Mama hadn't come to check on her even once during the night.
But Mama had been running a fever herself. Still managing the kitchen. Cooking from early morning. Feeding around fifteen workers by noon — including my grandparents.
In frustration, Mama said,
"So what if I didn't come? Wasn't he there?"
"I won't come to check on you."
Words spoken in anger.
Words that later became regret.
Because everyone believed it would be just another normal day.
Mama cooked.
After everyone ate their meal, she ate at one o'clock. It was late, but it had become a habit of Mama as she was the last to eat and to cook again if something finished early.
Then again around three.
She prepared lunch for the workers.
Grandma seemed fine.
She even talked normally with Mama during lunch.
That afternoon, we were discussing room arrangements as we were adding floor above the workshop to live upstairs and the work continued downstairs.
Since Grandma had diabetes and high blood pressure, we thought it would be better to keep her room closer to the toilet. Easier access. More comfort.
We were making space for her future.
We thought there would be time.
After lunch, Grandma and My third uncle Morgan were sitting together talking and having lunch after lunch she suddenly felt dizzy.
She fell.
My uncle carried her to her room.
This time she wasn't talkative.
Not complaining.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet.
We thought she was resting and felt dizzy due to weakness,but grandpa being in the same room didn't call anyone and told that Grandma condition was serious.
After a long while, Papa and Joe heard Grandpa Arlen calling Dilen's name in a low, trembling voice. It wasn't loud — just soft, urgent, and different. They hurried to the room to ask why he was calling.
Mama heard it too and quickly followed them inside.
The moment they entered, their eyes fell on Grandma.
She looked pale. Too still.
Papa immediately turned to me and said, "Call a taxi. We're going to the hospital." His voice was trying to stay strong, but fear was hiding inside it.
Grandma's breathing had become shallow and slow. Each breath felt lighter than the one before. Mama held her hand, whispering her name, asking her to stay with us. Grandpa Arlen kept softly calling her, as if his voice could guide her back.
The taxi arrived, and we along with the uncle who lived with us in workshop helped her into the back seat. The ride felt endless. The streets passed by in silence except for Papa telling the driver to go faster.
And then… somewhere during that ride, as the city lights flickered past the windows, Grandma quietly took her last breath.
Mama felt her hand grow still.
Papa called her name again and again, but deep down, we all knew.
She was gone.
Just like that.
When I received the news, I felt nothing.
No tears.
No anger.
No love.
At the hospital, I stood there blank.
It didn't hit me.
Maybe resentment had dulled something inside me.
Maybe shock did.
Today was the first day of rituals.
After her body was cremated, the house felt altered.
Not empty.
Just rearranged.
As I realized everyone was going back in hometown to perform rituals and rites as her son and daughter as friend and grand daughter . My chest felt tight.
Not pain — just heaviness.
Like emotions were arriving slowly, one by one.
I saw Papa cry.
He's the kind of man whose anger shows easily on his face.
But he was always soft for Grandma Arlen.
Maybe he was thinking about the morning quarrel.
Maybe he regretted not realizing sooner .
Maybe he was grieving the fact that from now on, there would be no one to call "Ma" — in anger, in happiness, or in sadness.
And maybe Mama was regretting her words too.
Because she had thought it was just another casual day.
Life moves strangely.
People shift houses.
Relationships shift roles.
But death does not wait for emotional clarity.
Three months.
That's how long they lived with us again.
Three months of silent resentment.
Three months of quiet responsibility.
Three months of Papa buying sugar-free biscuits in the morning.
Three months of planning rooms so she could be comfortable.
And then she was gone.
I didn't wake up transformed.
There was no dramatic accident to divide my life into before and after.
There was only an ordinary day that turned final without warning.
And somehow, that feels heavier than any dream ever could.
Her passing keeps bringing back memories.
I remember how I used to sleep beside her whenever we went to our hometown during festivals. The nights felt warmer then. She would tell me stories in the dark — stories about how Mama and Aunt got married to Papa and Uncle, about the old days, about things that sounded almost magical when she said them.
She had a way of turning ordinary memories into beautiful stories.
Now those nights feel so far away.
And I don't even know what I'm feeling. I can't say I'm okay. I can't say I'm not. I can't tell if I'm right to feel this way or wrong. Everything just feels… confusing and sad somehow.