For the first time in my life, I felt a flicker of excitement about going to a party. But as I rummaged through my closet, my enthusiasm began to fizzle. Nothing seemed remotely suitable for the occasion. Worse, nothing fit the theme.
The invitation had been clear: White attire only. Yet here I was, staring at a closet that seemed allergic to simplicity. Not a single plain white garment hung among the mishmash of faded dresses and well-worn tops.
Frustration simmered beneath my skin as I rifled through the hangers one last time. In my frenzy, I knocked over a precariously balanced stack of papers on my desk. Muttering under my breath, I bent down to gather the mess. That's when my gaze fell on a note written in my mother's careful hand.
"Don't forget to shop for jewelry."
The words sparked an idea.
"Yes!" I thought, almost aloud. "I'll just go shopping."
But my moment of triumph was quickly overshadowed by reluctance. Shopping wasn't my thing—never had been. It felt like an indulgence I couldn't afford, and, frankly, I hated the attention it drew. My classmates at university knew me as the girl who scorned malls and avoided spending money like it was cursed.
Still, this was a valid excuse, wasn't it? If anyone asked, I could always say I was shopping for my mother.
The thought was a small comfort, but the pang of memories it brought wasn't. My mother. My rock. My everything. She raised me on her own, with nothing but grit and the small income we earned selling groceries from her late parents' village home.
Her life hadn't been easy. She'd gotten pregnant young while working as a maid for a wealthy family. My father, her employer's son, had been a reckless young man then—more interested in parties and friends than in responsibility. One night, he stumbled home drunk, his parents away on business. My mother, dutiful as always, helped him to bed.
What happened next, she never told me in detail.
But the result was clear: me.
When my father left to study abroad, he didn't know my mother was already carrying his child. Too scared to face his family, my mother returned to her village. Those years were hard, unbearably so, but they also made us stronger.
My thoughts lingered on the memories as I grabbed my side bag and headed for the door. Shopping wasn't something I enjoyed, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I had a card my father had given me after he finally married my mother, a token of his effort to make up for lost time. I rarely used it. Depending on him—or his money—still felt like admitting defeat, like proving to my grandparents that I wasn't capable of standing on my own.
My grandparents.
Their disdain for me was something I carried like a weight on my chest. Even after my father claimed me as his daughter, they refused to acknowledge me. To them, I was an intruder, a shadow of my mother's mistake.
"Not his real child," they'd whisper, citing my lack of resemblance to him. My brothers, with their sharp features and striking resemblance to my father, were their pride and joy. But me? I was a reminder of something they'd rather forget.
As I stepped out into the busy streets, I pushed the thoughts aside. There were more pressing matters—like finding something decent to wear and, while I was at it, picking up a gift for my younger brother's eighteenth birthday.
Even if I wasn't their favorite, I refused to let that stop me from showing up for my family. It was just another way of proving to them—and to myself—that I could rise above it all.
And as I made my way toward the university mall, I resolved that tonight, for the first time in a long while, I wouldn't let the shadows of the past define me.