I sat by the car window, my small face resting against the cool glass as we drove up the narrow mountain road. On both sides, the deep forest stretched endlessly—tall trees rising like silent guardians, their branches swaying in the cold breeze that slipped through the half-opened window and brushed across my cheeks.
We were heading to Costa Rica, to our rest house high on the mountain, to celebrate my twelfth birthday. My parents sat in the front—Mom beside the window, Dad at the wheel. They weren't talking. Not warmly. Not lovingly. Just… silent.
I kept my eyes outside, following the curve of the road, pretending everything was fine.
Suddenly, the car jerked violently.
My dad slammed on the brakes.
A deer stood frozen in the headlights—its eyes bright, legs trembling. After a heartbeat, it leaped back into the forest and disappeared into the shadows.
"Go slow on the mountain road," my mom said, her voice a little shaky. "Don't rush."
"Shut your mouth," my dad snapped. "I don't need your driving lessons."
Her jaw tightened. "Then at least make this trip smooth."
"If you stay quiet, it will be smooth."
That was it.
The peace shattered.
Mom turned toward the window, blinking back anger.
Dad drove harder, honking at the car in front of us for no real reason.
I watched them quietly, used to all of this—the tension, the sudden sparks, the loud ends.
Fights… they felt like my siblings. They were always there, every single day.
On the rare days they didn't argue, I would silently thank God for giving us a noiseless day.
I sighed softly and turned my attention to the view outside. The car curved around a sharp hairpin bend, and the forest opened into a breathtaking drop—layers of mountains rolling into the horizon. But instead of admiring it, old memories pulled me in. Memories I tried not to think about.
When I was younger—too young to even remember my exact age—I already knew what fear felt like.
One afternoon, while playing with my toys in my room, I heard loud noises coming from my parents' room. Curious and scared, I tiptoed there and peeked through the half-closed door.
What I saw still haunts me.
My dad had my mom pinned against the wall.
His hand wrapped tightly around her neck.
Her feet barely touched the floor.
She struggled to breathe.
I froze.
Tears streamed down my cheeks before I even realized I was crying. Suddenly, he dropped her. She collapsed, gasping for air, and as soon as she caught her breath, she rushed to me, gathered me into her trembling arms, and carried me back to my room.
"Don't cry, dear," she whispered. "We were just talking."
But I wasn't stupid. Even at that age, I knew they weren't "just talking."
She tucked me into bed, pulled the blanket gently over me, switched off the lamp, kissed my forehead, and left. The door clicked softly behind her.
But I pressed my ear to the door, listening.
"What did she see?" my dad demanded.
"Nothing," my mom lied. "She was sleepwalking."
He blamed her anyway.
"All this is because of you. If I had married some intelligent, financially strong girl, I would've had money to invest in a business instead of working under morons."
She cried silently.
"That boss of mine wants everything done in one month—when the work clearly needs three! And in the middle of that, you ask about a school vacation trip? Are you insane?"
I heard something crash—a table, maybe.
I flinched.
Back then, I didn't understand his work or stress. I didn't understand adult words like "finance" or "business." But I understood fear. I understood danger. I understood that my mother was always the one hurt.
I cried the whole night.
Not a moment of sleep.
And even now, remembering it makes my chest tighten.
I forced myself back into the present. The car ride had finally ended.
We had reached our rest house in Costa Rica—a peaceful retreat tucked high among emerald mountains. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of distant rain. Colorful birds darted between the trees, and a soft mist hung low, making everything look magical.
I stepped out of the car and inhaled deeply. For a second, I felt like I could breathe again.
My parents carried the bags inside. I followed them into the warm wooden interior of the house. Our maid aunty—who took care of the place when we were away—stood at the doorway with her familiar gentle smile. I ran to her and wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me back, firm and warm, and I kissed her cheek.
Mom hugged her too.
Dad walked past them without saying a word.
Aunty knew everything—my parents' moods, their fights, their storms. Whenever they argued here, she would take me to her home, feed me warm food, tuck me into her daughter's bed, and pretend everything was normal. She would talk to me softly, making sure I didn't worry too much.
But I knew.
I always knew.
I just pretended I didn't.
Still, a tiny part of me hoped—just this once—that this trip would stay peaceful.
That maybe, for my birthday, we could have a day without conflict.
I wished for it silently
as the mountain breeze whispered through the doorway.