The Weight of Morning
The morning sun pierced through the rusted metal slits of the window, streaking light across the worn cement floor. Peterson Joseph sat up in his creaky bed, his curly hair wild from sleep. He stretched, cracking his knuckles, then sighed. Another day in Cap-Haïtien. Outside, the neighborhood stirred—roosters crowed, dogs barked, and vendors shouted the prices of fresh produce in sing-song Creole.
Inside their two-room house, the smell of fried plantains mixed with the sour scent of wet laundry. His mother, Altagrace, was already at work, arranging avocados, mangoes, and breadfruit into a worn straw basket. She hummed a low tune—an old folk melody, sad but strong—as she prepared for another exhausting day at the market.
Ever since their father walked out to live with another woman, everything had fallen on her shoulders. And she carried it all—grief, hunger, school fees, hoping for a good sale day everyday without complaint.
In the cramped corner they shared as a bedroom, Amanda and Miranda, his twin sisters, were already arguing.
"That's not you who bought them!" Amanda snapped, tugging at a pair of socks.
"No, but I wore them first" Miranda replied, yanking them back.
Peterson smirked but said nothing. This was normal his Loud twin sisters with that Familiar kind of chaos that somehow brought comfort.
As he pulled on his faded school uniform, his thoughts drifted to the growing pressure he felt each day. He wanted to do more for his family. Watching his mother struggle with swollen feet and tired eyes lit a fire in him, sadly not the kind that burst into anything useful, just a slow burn of frustration.
He hated it at the same time, he felt trapped. When you live in poverty, sometimes the line between right and wrong isn't so clear.
As they stepped outside, the city opened up around them. The sun was rising fast, casting everything in a golden glow. Brightly painted tap-taps rolled by, music blasting from their speakers. Street vendors held up their goods: fried marinad (fritters), fresh sugarcane, plastic-wrapped candy.
Amanda and Miranda chattered beside him about a math quiz and a boy one of them liked. He didn't have time to listen to their nonsense. His eyes scanned the street—watching for signs of trouble, keeping alert.
He wasn't just a student. He was something in-between.
And every step he took felt like it could tip him one way or the other.
But his family was all he got.
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