I was ten when my father left. Just walked out the door and never looked back, leaving me and my mother in a life that felt like it was crumbling beneath us. At first, I thought he'd come back. That maybe he'd just needed space. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the truth settled in like a slow, suffocating weight.
I didn't understand why he left. I didn't understand what I had done wrong. And that confusion twisted into something dark inside me—anger, resentment, a growing numbness. I stopped caring about the people around me. I made mistakes, some so unforgivable that I wish I could erase them. But life doesn't give second chances.
By the time I was twelve, the pain had become unbearable. Every night, the same thoughts haunted me—why weren't we enough? Why did he leave us like this, struggling, miserable? And the only person I could take it out on was my mother.
That night, we fought. Or rather, I yelled. She sat there, trying to answer my questions, but I could see it in her eyes—she didn't want to. Or maybe she simply couldn't. I didn't care. I just kept shouting, throwing every bit of my frustration at her, demanding answers she never gave. Not once did I stop to think about how much weight she was already carrying. Not once did I remember the heart condition that had troubled her for years.
At some point, I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. I sat in the yard, arms wrapped around my knees, staring at the ground. The night was quiet, except for the distant hum of the city. Inside, my mother remained at the table, her head resting on her folded arms.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I didn't move, and neither did she.
A gnawing unease crept up my spine. I swallowed, pushing it down, telling myself I was overthinking. But still, something felt wrong. Slowly, I got to my feet and stepped back inside.
She was still in the same position.
"Mom?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
She didn't respond.
A chill ran through me. "Mom," I said again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
My chest tightened as I hurried to her side, reaching out to shake her shoulder. "Mom, wake up." My voice wavered. She didn't stir. My hands trembled as I shook her harder. "Mom!" My breath came in short, shallow gasps.
No response.
Panic surged through me like ice in my veins. "No, no, no—Mom, please—" My throat closed up, tears spilling over my cheeks as I clutched at her, desperate to feel any sign of life. But she was motionless. Unmoving.
I don't remember much after that. Just the frantic scramble to the telephone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed my aunt's number. When she picked up, I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Only broken, gasping sobs.
She must have understood. "Stay calm, sweetheart. We're coming. Just hold on."
I dropped the phone and rushed back to my mother, but she was still the same. Still unmoving.
It felt like an eternity before my aunt and uncle arrived. As soon as I opened the door, my aunt took one look at me and knew. I barely managed to choke out the word—"Mom."
She pushed past me, rushing to my mother's side. I saw it in her face, the same fear that had gripped me, but she acted fast. My uncle helped lift my mother's limp body, carrying her to the car while my aunt ushered me into the front seat.
The drive to the hospital was a blur. My mind was blank, yet the terror remained, clenching my chest so tight it hurt to breathe.
When we arrived, the doctors took her away, and I clung to my aunt, waiting, hoping, praying.
Then, after what felt like forever, the doctors came back. Their faces told me everything before they even spoke. Their heads were low, voices quiet as they murmured, "We're sorry."
My uncle let out a heavy, pained breath, pressing his hands against his face. My aunt broke down, pulling me into a tight embrace as sobs wracked her body.
But I didn't cry. I couldn't.
Because some part of me already knew.
She was gone.