The attic air hung thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket of dust and forgotten memories. Sunlight, fractured and weak, struggled through the grime-coated window, illuminating a scene I'd avoided for far too long. I told myself I was searching for old photographs, a tangible piece of Tara to hold onto, but deep down, I knew I was drawn here by something else - a desperate need to understand. That's when I saw them: a stack of worn notebooks, bound together with faded twine, tucked away in a cobweb-laden corner. Her diaries.
My breath hitched. I recognized the familiar, cramped script instantly - a mirror of the countless notes she'd left me over the years, reminders to eat, to study, to be careful. A wave of nausea washed over me, a potent cocktail of grief and guilt. My hands trembled so violently I could barely untie the knot.
The first entry was dated... impossibly, she was only five.
"Hi, my name is Tara Zaimes, I'm 5 years old. I heard that if you write in diaries every day you'll have a great memory to read when you grow up, and my classmates also have one, so I'll start writing in my diaries. There's nothing really interesting in my daily life, so don't expect anything. Right now, I will be meeting my younger sister who is 4 years old, you ask why?"
A pang of tenderness pierced through the numbness. Five years old, and already burdened with the weight of the world. My world.
"My mother is an OFW, and so is my father. She gave birth to me here in the province and took care of me for 1 year. After that, she flew back to her work, and I was left here with my second auntie. Next year she flew back here in the province looking pregnant and ready to give birth to my little sister. She took care of her for 1 year, and she again flew back to her work, and my sister was with my third uncle who's living in the city. After 3 years, I'm 5 years old, and my mother came back with someone, and that's my younger sister Shai Zaimes who is 4 years old, and my father."
I remember that day, or at least, I remember the feeling of that day: the dizzying swirl of unfamiliar faces, the strange, echoing house, the overwhelming sense of being...lost. But Tara, even then, was a beacon, a warm hand reaching out in the darkness.
"We spent some time bonding, and after 5 months, they flew back to their work, leaving me and my sister with our second aunt. Since then, I took care of my sister. I expected to hear her call me 'sister,' but to my disappointment, she didn't. She just called me by my name, but it's okay; she'll call me that in the future."
Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the already faded ink. "It's okay," she wrote. Always minimizing her own pain, always putting others first. Even a five-year-old knows how to be a good sister.
"3 years past, I'm 8 years old now and my sister is 7, my mother came back but we didn't see our father with here she was looking sad so I didn't ask her about my father. She said she won't go back to her work because it's to far from us. Instead she will work in the capital and leave us to our first aunt who is living outside of the capital. Our house was demolished for some reason I don't know why, and we arrived in my first auntie's house. We also transferred school, but it's too far from first auntie's house. We don't have money to take a car to school, so we walked. My sister isn't used to walking, so I carry here back home and school. Our auntie is an office worker, and she couldn't take care of us, so she hired a nanny. Our nanny is already too old for her to work, so I help with some of the housework. And by the way, my diary book is already full. I don't have many to buy a new notebook, so I gathered some of my past notebooks. I took some that doesn't have written in it and gather it to make a new notebook for my diaries."
I could almost see her, a skinny, determined eight-year-old, her small back straining under my weight as she carried me home from school. The shame was a physical ache in my chest. I should have been helping her.
"8 months have past, a men in uniform came to our house they said that my mom delivered a package for us, I saw that the box is big and it was package will that I couldn't see what's inside. My auntie take the package to her room, I want to see what's inside but auntie said later so I waited. Afternoon I saw my auntie came out from her room carrying plastic bags that have some can foods, instant and etc. inside it so I think the package is full of foods. She gave them to our neighbors, I watch her doing that and later she gave me 1 can of food and said 'if your hungry eat it' and then she go back to her room. I look at the can food in my hands, gave to my nanny and said ' I'm hungry let's eat' I take my sister to the table and we three shared the food until we're full."
A single can of food, shared between three. And she gave it away, worried about the nanny and me. My heart twisted.
"1 year and half past, I'm 9 years old, my mother came back from work with someone that we didn't know she said he will be my father. I don't know what happened to my biological father but she said he will not be with us because he already have someone with. I didn't understand it but I didn't think about it anymore. My step father say hi to us and said 'just call him uncle if we're uncomfortable' so we did after that my mother ask me if we ate the cup cakes and cookies that she delivered. (We rarely eat cupcakes and cookies because it's expensive) I asked mother if she did really buy that and she did but we didn't ate it because there nothing aunt gave us. And when night came, my mother confronted my auntie about what happened which leads to there argument and the results is we leave from her house, my step father take us in and we leave from capital and we sister transfered school from there, from that moment mother didn't leave us anymore. Years past highschool came, I'm now 12 years old, mother is doing a little business which is selling food, it's not enough so we help her by selling it to our classmates and teachers in school."
The entries grew shorter, more fragmented, the joy slowly leaching out of her words. The once neat handwriting became shaky, almost illegible at times. It was like watching a flame slowly flicker and die.
"Each day I realized, my life has something messing and I tried to figure it out but I couldn't, I graduated from highschool and now I'm taking college I'm now 18 years old but it's too far from my family, my mother couldn't afford the tuition so my stepfather's daughter took me in and I started my college while working with them. My stepsister has a family her husband is nice to me and her daughter is like a spoiled brat, she likes to pinch my arm sometimes but I just let it go since she's just a child. My stepsister is the who is paying my tuition along with 1k for my allowance each month, since I don't buy unnecessary things I only save it and expended if I have projects or things that I need to pay for maintenance. My work is to clean the house, do some laundry, cook for them, take and Fitch her daughter at her school etc."
I knew about the stepsister, of course. I'd heard the stories, dismissed them as petty squabbles. Now, reading Tara's stark account, I saw the truth: she was a servant, a slave, her spirit slowly being eroded. A line was scratched out violently, almost tearing the page. Underneath, barely visible, were the words: "I'm starting to think it's not worth it."
"2 years past, I'm now 20 years old. everyday it's getting hard to study while working sometimes...more like every day she always wants me to do something even though I have online classes and it's hard to focus because of it. She sometimes pinch me in my arms, shout at me or even throw a plastic bottles with water at me, her daughter is also annoying because she's disturbing me while Listening in the class She also stop providing me allowance since last year. It's getting harder and harder for me that I wanted to give up but remembering why I came here and doing these because of my family worries me. My grades start failing and even leads to failed, I start to lose weight, I have black skin below my eyes like a black eye I even lose some of my hair everyday. Then I start to wonder why was I doing this for? For who? For my family of course but why? I did everything, I try hard is it not enough. Even if I get sick they still wants me to work, cook for them take care of them. I'm already exhausted, what's the point of me being born I looked like stick now, my arms is thin, face look like I'm old. I had enough , I'm exhausted and wants to rest. I talked to my mother and told what happened and she wants me to return home and so I did go home. After half a month mother wants me to go back to college but to tell you the truth I don't have the will to study again I don't even want to work or do anything I just want to rest and rest. So I lied to my mother I said that I requested to have my credentials from my previous school and hasn't re-save a response from them so I help mother to her small business but the truth is I didn't requested any at all."
The words swam before my eyes, a desperate plea for help masked as a simple diary entry. "What's the point of me being born?" she asked. And I, wrapped up in my own petty dramas, hadn't even noticed she was drowning. A new line was added at the end of the entry: "I feel like I'm disappearing. Like I'm already dead, but no one has noticed yet."
The final entries were almost unreadable, a chaotic jumble of ink and despair. The pages were stained with what looked like tears.
"Years past I'm now 29 years old and soon to be off the calendar and I kept lie'ng to my mother until she past away at the age of 68, my health is continuing to deteriorating but still living, my younger sister already have a stable job she doesn't need me anymore. Last night I ask her if she still needed me, I didn't emphasize what I said but she gave me a different answer to what I expect. She said she already have a stable job and don't need my support financially. and she even called me older sister I somehow had relief to hear that and now I star to let go of everything. I want to end my useless life."
The last entry was a single, chilling sentence, scrawled in a shaky hand: "There's nothing left to hold onto. I'm just...tired."
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