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Chapter 4

Four Years of Silence

"Some children grow up surrounded by toys and laughter. Others grow up surrounded by fear, hunger, and silence. I was one of the children who learned too early that surviving was harder than living."

My name is Goodness.

By the time I was six years old, I had already witnessed more pain than many adults experience in a lifetime. My mother believed she was making the best decision for me when she allowed me to stay with another woman for a while. The woman had no children of her own and promised to care for me as though I were her daughter.

My mother trusted her.

So did I.

At first, everything seemed perfect.

The woman welcomed me warmly. She smiled often, bought me little snacks, and spoke gently. Her husband also treated me kindly. For the first time in a long while, I thought maybe life was finally changing.

I remember telling myself, Perhaps this is what a peaceful home feels like.

The house was quiet. There were no children to play with, no television to watch, and very little excitement. Still, I convinced myself that it was better than living in constant fear.

I had no idea that the kindness I saw was only temporary.

As the weeks turned into months, everything changed.

The smiles disappeared.

The gentle voice became harsh.

The woman who had once called me her daughter slowly became someone I barely recognized.

Food became a weapon.

Instead of giving me fresh meals, she often handed me leftovers that had been kept in the freezer for far too long. Sometimes the food smelled sour. Other times it was already spoiled, but I ate it anyway because hunger is stronger than pride.

Whenever I gathered the courage to complain, she would glare at me.

"Does your mother send money for your food?" she would ask.

"Does your father pay me to take care of you?"

Those words always silenced me.

I had no answer.

I was only a little girl.

School was another struggle.

Some weeks I attended classes. Other weeks I stayed home because I had to help her run her provision shop. While children my age were learning mathematics and reading storybooks, I spent my days carrying goods, arranging shelves, sweeping floors, and serving customers.

Education became a privilege instead of a right.

If customers bought heavy items, I was the one expected to carry them.

Sometimes the loads were almost too heavy for my small body.

If I slowed down because of the weight, punishment waited for me at home.

If I arrived late, punishment waited.

If I accidentally made a mistake, punishment waited.

There seemed to be no way to escape it.

The beatings became more frequent.

Sometimes she slapped me until my ears rang.

Other times she used objects she found around the house.

On several occasions, the blows landed so hard that blood filled my mouth.

My clothes became stained with my own blood and tears.

I would cry quietly while wondering what terrible thing I had done to deserve such treatment.

The answer never came.

Neighbors occasionally noticed my injuries.

Some looked at me with pity.

Others simply looked away.

A few even asked whether I truly belonged to the family.

"Are you her real daughter?" someone once asked.

"Were you adopted from an orphanage?"

Those questions hurt more than I could explain.

I wanted to shout that I had a mother.

I wanted to tell them that somewhere, someone loved me.

But I remained silent.

Silence had become my protection.

There were days when hunger became unbearable.

Whenever I looked at the food inside the shop, I fought the temptation to eat without permission.

Sometimes I lost that battle.

A biscuit.

A sweet.

A small piece of bread.

Each bite came with fear.

If she discovered what I had eaten, another beating followed.

The punishment always seemed greater than the mistake.

I lived like someone serving a sentence instead of a child growing up.

At night I cried myself to sleep.

I missed my mother.

I missed my brothers.

I missed hearing someone call my name with love.

The hardest part was not knowing how to reach her.

I did not know my mother's phone number.

I had no way of contacting her.

Whenever I asked about speaking to my family, I was told there was no need.

I felt completely alone.

One day I gathered enough courage to call my father instead.

I hoped he would rescue me.

I hoped he would remember that I was his daughter.

Instead, the conversation changed nothing.

When the call ended, I remained exactly where I was.

Alone.

Forgotten.

Helpless.

As time passed, I stopped expecting rescue.

Instead, I prayed.

Every night I asked God to let me see my mother again.

I did not ask for toys.

I did not ask for beautiful clothes.

I simply wanted to go home.

Then came the day that changed my life forever.

I was only eight years old.

It happened so quickly that I barely understood what was taking place.

An accident left me with severe burns across parts of my body.

The pain was unbearable.

It felt as though fire had swallowed my skin.

My hand was badly burned.

Parts of my stomach were affected.

My lap suffered painful injuries.

The burns also reached part of my chest.

For days I cried whenever anyone touched me.

Simple movements became impossible.

Stretching my arm hurt.

Walking became painful.

Sleeping was almost impossible.

Every breath reminded me that I was injured.

Although the wounds slowly healed, they left permanent scars.

Even today, those scars remain with me.

They tell a story my words sometimes cannot.

Four long years passed.

Then an important family ceremony brought everyone together in our village.

It was a traditional celebration honoring my grandmother after many years of service in accordance with our community's customs.

That gathering changed everything.

My mother saw me.

The moment she noticed the scars covering my body, her face changed completely.

Shock.

Pain.

Disbelief.

She carefully examined my burned skin.

Then tears filled her eyes.

"My daughter," she whispered.

"What happened to you?"

She looked at the woman who had promised to protect me.

Her voice trembled with anger.

"I trusted you with my child."

"How could this happen?"

She pointed toward my injuries.

"My daughter's skin is burned."

"Her body has been scarred."

"Do you understand what this may mean for her future?"

The woman showed little concern.

Instead of apologizing, she tried to minimize what had happened.

She suggested that things could have been worse because my face had not been badly damaged.

Those words broke my mother's heart.

At that very moment she made her decision.

She would never leave me there again.

She held my hand tightly.

"We're going home," she said.

I cried.

Strangely, I begged to return with the woman.

Children often become attached even to places where they suffer because they know nothing else.

The woman promised she would change.

She promised she would treat me better.

I wanted to believe her.

But my mother did not.

"No," she said firmly.

"You are never going back."

She brought me home.

For the first time in years, I slept under the same roof as my mother again.

It should have been the happiest day of my childhood.

Instead, I found myself crying almost every night.

Trauma does not disappear simply because someone escapes the place where it began.

The fear remained inside me.

Loud voices startled me.

Harsh words frightened me.

Sometimes I woke suddenly from terrible dreams.

The child had escaped.

But the memories had not.

As I entered my teenage years, the emotional wounds became harder to ignore.

I struggled with sadness.

Some days I barely wanted to speak.

Other days I questioned my worth.

The years of hunger, fear, and neglect had changed something inside me.

My body also carried reminders of the difficult years.

I experienced health problems that worried both me and my family.

We searched for answers.

We visited clinics whenever we could afford to.

Different medicines were prescribed over time, but many of my symptoms continued.

The cost of further medical care seemed impossible for our family to afford.

Yet my mother refused to stop hoping.

She believed that one day I would receive the treatment I needed.

Even during our own struggles, news occasionally reached us about my father's household.

Life there was far from peaceful.

The family continued facing one hardship after another.

My brothers, who had remained behind, were growing up under difficult circumstances.

They carried burdens no child should have to carry.

Hearing about their situation filled me with sadness because they were my brothers.

No matter how far apart we were, they remained part of me.

Sometimes I wondered what our lives could have been if different choices had been made years earlier.

Would we have grown up together?

Would we have laughed more?

Would our childhood have been filled with happier memories?

Those questions never left my mind.

Looking back now, I realize something important.

Family crises do not affect only husbands and wives.

They shape the lives of children.

They influence generations.

They leave invisible wounds that can take years to heal.

Some scars are hidden beneath clothing.

Others are hidden deep inside the heart.

Both are equally real.

Even after everything I had survived, I refused to believe that my story would end in pain.

I believed there had to be a reason I survived my premature birth.

A reason I survived the burns.

A reason I survived those lonely years.

Perhaps one day my story would give hope to another child who believed they had been forgotten.

Perhaps someone reading these words would find the courage to keep living.

Perhaps pain was not the end of my journey.

Perhaps it was only the beginning of a greater purpose.

But I had no idea that an even greater battle still lay ahead.

The darkest chapter of my life had not yet been written.

To be continued...