Chapter 1: Matured Before the World Noticed
They used to say I was a quiet child.What they didn't know was that silence was something I learned early.
My name, in this story, is Mahi. I was seven when I first understood that adults lie—not with words, but with the way they avoid looking at you. I didn't know the word affair then. I only knew that something in my father's voice changed when the phone rang late, and that my mother's smile had begun to arrive a second too late.
I watched more than I spoke.I remembered more than I asked.
I matured long before anyone would have imagined it. I never cried in front of people. I cried only in front of my mother, Firdaus.
She was the only place where my fear felt safe.
Firdaus was gentle in a way that made you forget the world could be cruel. Even when I wasn't gentle. Even when I was angry. Even when I copied the violence I had seen, thinking it was strength. When my father wasn't home, I sometimes raised my hand in frustration, grabbed for a phone, let my temper speak before my heart could stop it.
She never raised her hand back.Never.
She never scolded me the way others would have. She only pulled me close, even when she was the one hurting. She stood between me and everything—pain, consequences, the world. She protected me the way only mothers do: quietly, completely, without conditions.
A month before she died, I changed.
I don't know what shifted inside me. Maybe I finally saw her clearly. Maybe I grew up a little too late. I spoke softer. I learned restraint. I tried to become better.
I thought I had time.
I didn't know that regret sometimes arrives early—but understanding arrives too late.
On 17 January 2021, the morning felt ordinary. That is what still hurts the most. My father left for work like he always did. Before closing the door, he told me to wake Firdaus at ten. His voice was casual. Practiced.
I logged into my online class. The teacher spoke. My screen glowed. Time passed.
At ten, I went to her room.
She didn't answer.
I called her name again. Louder this time. Still nothing. I told myself she was tired. That she was sleeping deeply. I told myself many things because the truth had not yet arrived.
When fear finally did, it came quietly.
I called the house help. She checked. Her face changed before she said a word.
I didn't scream.I didn't cry.I had already learned how not to.
When the house filled with people and prayers, they asked me what my mother had said the night before. In our faith, last words matter. Paths to peace matter.
I told them the truth.
She told me to take care of my brother.She told me to sleep after he slept.
That was all.
Now, when I say Firdaus's name, my father's face closes within milliseconds. So I don't say it. I carry her quietly instead—where no one can interrupt.
This is not a story about death.It is a story about growing up too early—and realising too late what love truly was
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AUTHOR'S THOUGHT :-
This story is inspired by real emotions and lived experiences. Names, places, and details have been changed to protect the livingand the dead