prayer drifted faintly through the air. She sat up slowly, careful not to move the mat too much.
Mariama shifted beside her. "Is it morning already?" she murmured, half asleep.
"Go back to sleep," Ruthie whispered. "You still have school."
Mariama groaned softly and pulled the cloth over her head. Isatou didn't stir at all.
Ruthie stood, slipped into her blouse and skirt, and adjusted the strap of her worn sandals. She paused in front of the tin mirror, brushing her fingers over her face. Fifteen years old. She looked older. She felt older.
From the next room came a quiet cough.
"Mama?" Ruthie called softly.
"I'm here," Awa replied, her voice slow, uneven. "Don't rush yourself."
Ruthie entered the room. Her mother was already awake, sitting against the wall, her good hand resting on her lap. Ruthie knelt in front of her.
"How is your leg today?"
Awa sighed. "It's stiff. But I'll manage."
"You always say that."
"And you always worry."
Ruthie smiled faintly and reached for the medicine bottle. She poured water into a cup and placed the pills in Awa's palm.
"Take this one first. Then wait a little before the next."
Awa nodded and swallowed with effort. Ruthie waited, counting silently, watching her mother's face for any sign of discomfort.
"You're going out early again," Awa said.
"Yes."
"Where today?"
"I'll start at Auntie Fatou's. She needs help washing clothes. After that, maybe the market."
Awa shook her head slowly. "You're doing too much."
"There's rice left for only two days," Ruthie said gently. "And your medicine—"
"I know." Awa reached for Ruthie's hand. "I just wish you didn't have to be the one carrying all this."
Ruthie squeezed her hand. "It's fine, Mama. I'm strong."
Awa looked at her for a long moment. "You shouldn't have to be."
By the time Ruthie stepped outside, the compound was already stirring. She greeted neighbors as she passed.
"Morning, Ruthie."
"Morning."
At Auntie Fatou's house, the older woman handed her a bucket and soap.
"Wash these first," she said. "I'll pay you later."
Ruthie nodded and got to work. Her hands moved quickly, practiced. The water was cold at first, then warmed by the sun. By midmorning, her arms ached, but she didn't slow down.
Auntie Fatou watched her quietly. "You should be in school," she said at last.
Ruthie shrugged. "Maybe later."
"That's what you always say."
"I know."
When she finished, Auntie Fatou pressed coins into her palm. Ruthie counted them once, then tucked them into her skirt pocket.
At the market, she helped peel cassava for a woman who barely looked up.
"You're fast," the woman said.
"I've had practice."
She earned a few more coins there. Not much. Enough.
When Ruthie returned home in the afternoon, Mariama and Isatou were already back from school.
"Did you eat?" Ruthie asked.
Mariama nodded. "Only a little."
Isatou held up a small bag. "I ran errands for Uncle Sorie. He gave me sugar."
Ruthie smiled. "Good. Put it with the rest."
They worked together without needing much instruction. Mariama stirred the pot. Isatou measured the medicine. Ruthie guided their mother to sit properly.
"Careful," Ruthie said. "Slow."
"I'm not made of glass," Awa muttered.
"I know," Ruthie said. "But still."
That evening, they ate quietly. No one complained. No one asked for more.
When the room grew dark, Mariama leaned against Ruthie. "Will things get better?"
Ruthie didn't answer right away.
"They have to," she said finally. "We just have to hold on."
Mariama nodded, trusting that answer because it came from Ruthie.
And Ruthie stayed awake long after they slept, already planning tomorrow.
Ruthie usually got home just before evening prayers.
She would step into the room quietly, dust on her skirt, shoulders sore, fingers curled around whatever the day had given her—sometimes a few dalasis, sometimes a small bag of rice or vegetables wrapped in paper.
Mariama would always be the first to notice."You're back."
Isatou would look up next, hopeful. "Did you get anything?"
Ruthie would nod and sit on the mat. "A little."
They gathered around her without being told. Mariama emptied her own pocket—two crumpled coins. Isatou placed a small packet of sugar beside them.
"That's all Uncle Sorie gave me," Isatou said quickly, as if apologizing.
"It's fine," Ruthie said. "Every bit counts."
They counted together. Slowly. Carefully. Food first. Medicine next. Anything left went into the small tin they called "just in case," though they all knew it was rarely touched.
Ruthie noticed how tired her sisters looked. School tired. Life tired.
"You ate?" she asked.
"Yes," Mariama said. "Bread."
Ruthie nodded. "Good."
She had grown taller over the years. Quieter. More deliberate. People said she was becoming a woman, but Ruthie felt like something else—someone who had stepped out of childhood without being asked.
There was no time to linger anywhere.Not at school.Not at the market.Not with friends.
Every choice had a purpose.
Every pause had a cost.
Morning always came too fast.
Ruthie woke before sunrise, washed her face, and moved straight to the kitchen corner. She checked the water, stirred the porridge, laid out her mother's medicine.
"Mama," she called softly.
Awa opened her eyes. "You're up already."
"As always."
Ruthie helped her sit, steadying her left side. She handed her the pills one by one.
"Slow," Ruthie said. "No rushing."
Awa smiled faintly. "You talk like an old woman."
"And you act like a stubborn child."
They shared a brief smile.
Ruthie woke her sisters next.
"Up," she said gently. "You'll be late."
Mariama groaned. Isatou sat up immediately.
They dressed. They ate. Ruthie packed what she could—sometimes bread, sometimes nothing more than water.
"Study hard," Ruthie said as she walked them to the door.
"We will," Mariama said. "Promise."
Once they were gone, Ruthie stepped out too.
Her day filled itself easily.
Sweeping compounds.Fetching water.Pounding millet.Scrubbing laundry until her hands burned.
"You work too hard," Fatou said once, watching her scrub.
Ruthie shrugged. "Someone has to."
By afternoon, her body ached in a way she barely noticed anymore. Pain had become background noise.
When she returned home, her sisters were already busy.
Mariama measured the medicine.Isatou brought water.Ruthie helped their mother move, bathed her, spoke gently when Awa grew confused.
"It's okay," Ruthie would say. "I'm here."
They cooked together. Ate quietly.
Sometimes Ruthie would catch herself watching her sisters—how young they still were, how much they carried. The thought would press against her chest.
Is this all my life will be?
Work. Worry. Repeat.
The thought scared her.
But pride followed close behind.
Her sisters were in school.Her mother was alive.They were still together.
That mattered.
Night never brought rest.
Awa needed help settling. Pills checked again. Blanket adjusted.
"Mama," Ruthie whispered. "Sleep."
Awa reached for her hand. "You're tired."
"I'm fine."
"You say that too much."
Ruthie smiled but said nothing.
When the house finally went quiet, Ruthie lay awake, staring into the dark. Planning. Calculating. Tomorrow's work already forming in her mind.
She remembered her father's voice sometimes. Calm. Steady.
A strong heart lasts longer than money.
Tears came only when she was sure no one could hear.
And then she wiped them away.
Because morning would come.
Because her family needed her.
Because the world could take many things—but it could not take her determination.
And as long as she could stand, Ruthie would keep going.