memories of you

My name is Joan and if you saw me for the first time you would probably think I had it all together. I have been told I look fragile — like a girl who was pampered and spoilt, raised with soft hands and even softer mornings. People look at me and assume someone has always been there to tie my shoes, pack my lunch and tuck me in at night. The bitter truth is that I have been taking care of myself since I was fifteen years old. My parents are not bad people. I want to make that clear before anything else. They are just busy people — the kind of busy that leaves no room for anything else, not even their only child. My mother stays at home but do not let that fool you. She runs a branding company that keeps her glued to her laptop from morning until the early hours of the next day. International calls with clients and already reaching for her phone. She is present in the house but absent in every way that matters. My father is a medical doctor. He rarely comes home and on the nights he does, he is usually gone before I wake up. He has patients in several hospitals across the city and sometimes he travels out of the country entirely. I have learned not to set a plate for him at dinner unless I am certain he called ahead.investors fill her evenings. The sound of her typing is basically my lullaby. She sleeps late most nights and wakes up Though I was never happy about this, I had to put up with it. I adapted. I learned to be independent because there was simply no other choice. I get myself ready for school every morning without any help. My mother once suggested hiring a nanny and I told her firmly that I was a young adult and had no need for a babysitter. To her credit my mother never makes decisions about my life without my consent or opinion. That I appreciate about her. I love my parents deeply. I always remind my mother not to overstress herself and to look after her health. I worry about her even when she does not worry enough about herself. But the loneliness is real. People around me envied my life from the outside. I smiled at all the right moments, laughed at all the right jokes and carried myself like a girl who wanted for nothing. Nobody could see what was happening on the inside — that I was quietly aching for something as simple as attention. Not money. Not gifts. Just time. It was not a broken home. My parents loved each other and they loved me. There was just never enough time and time, I have learned, is the one thing love cannot survive without. My mother does not attend PTA meetings at school. She handles everything through phone calls. Either she calls the school authority or they call her whenever something important comes up regarding me. I stopped expecting to see her face in the crowd of parents a long time ago. I do not have many friends. Not because I am cold or a bully — I am neither of those things. I am simply someone who grew up with loneliness as a companion and learned to mind her own business. People mistake my quietness for pride. It is not pride. It is just what happens when you spend enough years being your own company. One Sunday morning everything felt a little lighter because my mother was not working. I knocked on her bedroom door carefully, the way I always did — giving her the chance to let me in or not. She opened it and I stepped inside and sat at the edge of her bed like I used to do when I was younger. I told her about my promotional exams. Final year class was fast approaching and I wanted her to know. She listened. Really listened. And when I finished she made me a promise — if I came home with good grades she would buy me anything I wished for. I did not hesitate. A pink bicycle. She looked at me with slight surprise, probably expecting me to ask for a phone or jewellery or something expensive. But I had wanted that bicycle for as long as I could remember. I had even hinted about it on my last birthday but she had forgotten and bought something else instead, something lovely but not what my heart wanted. She had forgotten the year before that too. I know it sounds like a small thing — a bicycle. But to me it was never just a bicycle. It was freedom. Every time I imagined it I saw myself riding down a quiet street with the cool breeze brushing against my face, my favourite music playing softly through my headset, no deadlines, no empty house, no loneliness — just movement and air and peace. Even as a young adult that image still lived warmly in my chest. I held onto her promise the way you hold onto something you are almost afraid to believe in. End of Chapter One 🌹