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The year I turned eighteen, it rained a lot.
Not the kind of rain that pours down and quickly stops, but a lingering drizzle that seeps slowly into the ground, into the roof, into things people believe have long dried out. The house hadn't been repaired yet. The old tin roof leaked whenever it rained, droplets falling onto the cement floor. I was used to placing an aluminum basin under the leak, listening to the steady tap… tap… through the night.
That day, it rained again.
I was rinsing rice in the kitchen. The cold water numbed my hands, but I didn't dare light the stove early, afraid the smoke would cling to my clothes. My mother sat in the main room, her back against the wall, a teapot in front of her already gone cold. She wasn't looking at me, but I knew she was watching every movement.
For days, the atmosphere in the house had felt strange.
No one spoke directly.
Only casual remarks.
"How old is that girl now?"
"She's grown up already."
"When a girl reaches that age, arrangements must be made."
I heard them, but pretended I didn't.
Until that day.
"They've come to ask," my mother said, her voice flat — neither high nor low.
I paused for a moment, then continued rinsing the rice as if nothing had happened.
"Ask what?" I asked.
"About marriage," she replied, briefly, as if it were something already settled.
I set the basin down. The water rippled slightly, reflecting my blurred image. I stood up and wiped my hands on my shirt.
"I won't marry," I said.
The words came out fast — so fast that even I was surprised. No trembling. No hesitation. It felt like a sentence that had lived in my head for a long time, waiting for the moment to escape.
My mother turned to look at me.
There was no anger in her eyes. No harshness. Only a weariness that reached the bone.
"Do you think I have time to waste?" she asked.
"I don't want to force you," she said.
I didn't reply.
"I'm afraid," she continued, her voice sinking.
That word — afraid — stopped me.
"I'm afraid that when I'm gone, you won't know what to hold on to. They have money. He's only a few years older than you."
I looked at her — really looked, for the first time that day.
She looked much older than her age. Her back slightly hunched, her hands rough, calloused, layers of scars over years of work. I knew she had lived a hard life, and I also knew that in her mind, marrying me off meant her duty would finally be done.
But I couldn't.
"I'm not ready," I said, slower this time.
She struck the table. Not hard, but enough to make the teapot tremble.
"Ready for what?" she raised her voice.
"To keep studying? Where's the money?"
"To stay in this house forever? Do you think this house belongs to you?"
Those words weren't unfamiliar. I had heard her say them to herself countless times.
"A grown daughter."
"No husband means suffering."
"A woman with no one behind her will be stepped on."
I stood still, unmoving. Inside me, something rose slowly — heavy, suffocating.
"Mom," I said.
"I won't marry just to have someone behind me."
"If that's how I have to live, I'd rather stand alone."
She laughed — a dry laugh, empty of warmth.
"Stand alone with what?"
"A girl with no money, no husband, no home?"
I stayed silent.
Not because I had no answer.
But because I knew — at that moment — every answer was meaningless.
She looked at me for a long time, then said words that still make my chest ache whenever I remember them.
"You have to understand, I won't live long enough to shield you forever."
"I'm tired."
"I don't have the strength to take care of you for the rest of my life."
I listened, each sentence falling like raindrops on the floor.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I packed my things. Not much. A few clothes. My documents. The small amount of money I had saved. I didn't take anything from the house. I knew that if I did, I wouldn't be able to leave.
Near dawn, I stood in front of my mother.
She sat there silently. No tears. No attempt to stop me.
"I've heard everything you needed to say," I said softly.
"Now it's my turn."
She didn't look at me.
"I won't get married."
"I won't live your life."
"I won't come back as someone who failed."
I bowed my head to her.
Then I walked out.
The rain kept falling. Cold. Wet. But when the door closed behind me, I knew — some doors, once shut, will never open again.
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The Present
The sound of wind moving through the trees pulled me back to reality.
I was sitting in front of my uncle's house.
This house was nothing like the one from years ago. Thick walls. Raised floor. No leaks. Incense smoke still lingered at the altar. I held a cup of tea that had long gone cold, watching the thin smoke drift.
My uncle — the man who would later tell me he was my father — stood outside on the porch. Thin, slightly hunched, yet steady.
"Are you cold?" he asked gently.
I shook my head.
"No… it's late. You should go inside and rest."
I looked around the house and realized something painfully ironic.
The house I once sent money home to help build — I had no place in it.
This house — one I never asked for — was where I could finally sit in peace.
I set the cup down.
In my mind, the image of my eighteen-year-old self — the rain, my mother, the door — remained painfully clear.
I knew that from the moment I walked out of that house, every road ahead of me would lead forward only.
There would be no way back.
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