Salomi did not grow up in silence.
There were voices.
Footsteps.
Doors opening and closing.
Laughter, sometimes.
But none of it ever reached her.
Because a house can be full… and still have no place for you.
---
Mr. Albert tried—at least, that's what it looked like from the outside.
He tried to return her.
Took her back to where she came from.
But the door never opened for him the way it had for her.
He tried an orphanage.
They asked questions.
He answered.
And just like that, they refused.
"She's yours," they told him. "You don't get to pass responsibility like a burden."
So he brought her back.
Not because he chose her.
Because he had nowhere else to put her.
---
At home, Mrs. Matilda was fading.
Not slowly.
Not quietly.
But completely.
She cried when she was awake.
And when she wasn't crying… she drank.
The woman who once carried dignity like a crown now carried bottles like lifelines.
Her body thinned.
Her eyes sank.
Her beauty turned ghostly.
And every time she looked at the child—
She saw betrayal.
---
So Mr. Albert made a decision.
A coward's one.
He hired a nanny.
Didn't carry the baby.
Didn't respond to her cries.
Didn't allow himself to get attached.
Because maybe—just maybe—
If he acted like she didn't exist…
His wife might come back to him.
---
But children notice absence long before they understand it.
---
Salomi grew.
Quietly.
Gently.
Like something trying not to take up too much space.
She was a well-behaved child.
Too well-behaved.
She didn't cry unless she was hungry.
Didn't ask for things.
Didn't demand attention.
And when she smiled—
It was soft.
Warm.
Unassuming.
Like she was offering something no one had asked for.
---
By the age of nine…
She had already learned things children her age shouldn't need to know.
How to clean.
How to cook simple meals.
How to move around a room without being noticed.
How to make herself useful.
Because usefulness…
Felt like the closest thing to being wanted.
---
Meanwhile—
Christian, Sofie, and Ruby lived differently.
They didn't know chores.
Didn't need to.
Their world was untouched by responsibility.
And shaped—carefully, repeatedly—
By their mother's voice.
---
"She is not one of you."
"Don't call her your sister."
"She doesn't belong here."
---
It was said so often…
It stopped sounding like anger.
And started sounding like truth.
---
There are wounds that scream.
And there are wounds that settle.
Become part of you.
Invisible.
Permanent.
---
Mrs. Matilda never needed to shout.
Her silence was enough.
But when she did speak—
It cut.
"You are a mistake."
"You should not have been born."
"Everything wrong in this house started with you."
---
And still…
Salomi smiled.
Not because she didn't understand.
But because she didn't know what else to do.
---
She tried harder.
Cleaned better.
Helped more.
Stayed quieter.
---
And somehow…
That made it worse.
---
Because every time Mrs. Matilda looked at her—
She didn't just see the child.
She saw her husband's eyes.
Staring back at her.
A constant reminder.
A living betrayal.
---
And so…
The anger found somewhere to land.
---
One afternoon—
A small accident.
Water spilled across the rug.
Just a slip.
Just a child's mistake.
---
But it wasn't seen that way.
---
The sound of the slap echoed louder than it should have.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Final.
---
Salomi didn't cry immediately.
She just stood there.
Hand pressed lightly to her cheek.
Eyes wide.
Trying to understand how something so small…
Could hurt this much.
---
Across the room—
Mr. Albert stood.
Watching.
Frozen.
His hands clenched at his sides.
His mouth slightly open.
But no words came out.
---
Because speaking up meant choosing.
And he had already made his choice a long time ago.
---
So he stayed silent.
---
And that silence…
Taught everyone something.
---
It taught Mrs. Matilda that she could continue.
It taught the children that it was acceptable.
And it taught Salomi—
That no one was coming to protect her.
---
They all had black hair.
Long.
Flowing.
Uniform.
Like they belonged to the same picture.
---
Except her.
---
Salomi's hair caught the light differently.
Soft ginger strands that refused to blend in.
A quiet inheritance from a woman she would never know.
---
It made her stand out.
And not in a way that was kind.
---
Whenever they stood together—
She looked like a mistake someone forgot to erase.
---
And Mrs. Matilda made sure no one forgot it.
---
"She doesn't belong to us."
"Look at her."
"She's different."
---
The words became routine.
Repetition turned them into identity.
---
And slowly…
The other children stopped questioning it.
---
They started believing it.
---
And then—
They started treating her like it
Still—
Salomi loved them.
---
In the way children do.
Without conditions.
Without calculations.
---
She helped Ruby with her shoes.
Sat quietly beside Sofie when she cried.
Gave Christian the bigger portion when food was shared.
---
Small things.
Unnoticed things.
Unreturned things.
---
But she never stopped.
---
Because somewhere deep inside—
She believed that if she just tried hard enough…
One day—
They might look at her differently.
And call her something she had never truly been called before.
Family.