CHAPTER 4 :-
The woman who entered our house did so quietly, as if she understood that she was stepping into something fragile. She came with her children, their voices unfamiliar, their laughter misplaced. There was no formal announcement, no conversation meant for my understanding. She simply became part of our daily life.
She was not unkind. That was the most confusing part.
She cooked meals, asked practical questions, and sometimes smiled at me with uncertainty, as though she wasn't sure how close she was allowed to stand. I understood immediately that I was not her responsibility. I did not expect affection. I did not ask for it. Expectation only leads to disappointment, and I had learned that lesson early.
Instead, I observed.
I watched how adults move forward faster than children. How grief becomes inconvenient once it lingers too long. How loss is something people expect you to manage quietly. The house adapted quickly. Routines formed. Conversations returned to normal topics. Laughter reappeared in rooms that still felt wrong to hear it in.
I adapted too.
I learned where to sit so I wouldn't be in the way. I learned when to speak and when silence was safer. I learned how to share space without sharing myself. At school, I acted normal. At home, I became careful.
I stopped talking about my mother. I noticed how the air changed whenever her name surfaced, how discomfort settled over the room. So I kept her to myself. I memorized her instead—her habits, her voice, her expressions—afraid that speaking her name too often would make others want to forget her.
That was when I began to understand abandonment. Not the dramatic kind where someone leaves loudly, but the quiet kind where people stop noticing that you are still waiting.
I was surrounded, yet unchosen.