Trials Of Thelma: Unbroken

Birthday Of Pain

It’s my 14th birthday.

I woke up with no expectation of cakes, decorations, or presents—just like every year before. I’ve stopped hoping for those things. After all, hope can be a dangerous thing when it’s tied to disappointment. Instead, I’ve learned to find joy in the little moments, in the small acts of kindness that come my way. Today, I decided, would be no different.

"Happy birthday, T," Dad said softly, his face lighting up with a smile that held warmth.

"Thank you, Daddy," I replied, my smile just as soft, but a little forced. His words were sweet, but they didn’t fill the emptiness I carried inside.

"Happy birthday, my daughter," Mom said as she passed by, her tone more formal, almost distant. I wasn’t sure if she meant it or if it was just an automatic response to the calendar.

"Thank you, Ma," I whispered, trying not to feel the sting of her coldness as I left for school.

At school, there was the usual chatter and lessons. But there was one bright spot in my day—Blessing. My friend since primary school, she was the first to remember, like always.

"Happy birthday, Thelma!" she exclaimed, wrapping me in a quick hug. Her energy was contagious, and for a moment, I felt seen.

"Thanks, Blessing," I said, feeling a flicker of warmth in my chest.

The day dragged on after that, uneventful and quiet, just like I expected. By the time the final bell rang, I was ready to leave it all behind.

"Any special plans for your birthday?" Blessing asked as we walked home.

I shrugged. "Not really. Just the usual."

"Well, I hope you have a good evening," she said with a smile.

I nodded, waving goodbye as she turned the corner. I walked the rest of the way in silence, dreading what the evening would bring.

When I arrived at my mother’s store, she was busy with customers, her sharp eyes flicking toward me as I entered. She handed me a plastic bag of ingredients without even a glance in my direction. "Take these home and cook a pot of stew," Flo instructed, her voice clipped. "Add enough oil and let it fry longer this time. Don’t bother coming back tonight. I’ll close the store myself."

"Okay, Mummy," I mumbled, though inside, I wanted to say something more—something that would make her see me. But I didn’t. I never did. With my younger brother, Jayden, skipping beside me, we headed home. He was full of energy, chattering about his day, oblivious to the growing tension in my chest. I envied his innocence, the way he could simply exist without the weight of our mother’s expectations pressing down on him.

Once home, I immediately set to work. The stew had to be perfect. The tomatoes were blended, the meat boiled, and the oil sizzled in the pot as I stirred. I didn’t stop there. I cleaned the house, did the laundry, helped Jayden with his homework, all while making sure the stew didn’t burn. T

By the time Dad came home, I was beyond exhausted. I served him his dinner, bathed Jayden, and tucked him into bed. I thought, maybe, just maybe, I’d have a moment to myself. Just a moment to breathe. But I made the mistake of lying down. I hadn’t planned to sleep, but my body betrayed me. The weight of the day dragged me under, and before I knew it, I was lost in a dreamless haze.

I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until I was jolted awake by the harsh sound of my mother’s voice.

"How dare you sleep when there’s work to be done!" Her words were like venom, laced with a fury that made my stomach drop.

I jumped up, disoriented, my heart racing. "Mummy, I—" Before I could finish, her hand connected with my face. The slap was sharp, its sting spreading across my cheek like fire. I stumbled back, my vision blurring from the impact.

"You lazy, useless child!" she screamed, striking me again. My cries echoed in the small room, but they fell on deaf ears. Each blow was heavier than the last, her anger a force I couldn’t escape. "What kind of lazy child falls asleep before her mother gets home?"

Her voice was full of contempt, as if I were something disgusting she needed to rid herself of. And then came the worst of it.

She tore at my clothes, ripping them away until I was left exposed and vulnerable. My skin burned from where her nails scratched me, but that pain was nothing compared to what came next.

I heard her in the kitchen, and when she returned, she was holding a bowl. Before I could register what was happening, I felt her hands on me, rough and unforgiving, forcing my legs open. The next thing I knew, something cold and wet was being poured between my legs.

The burning came seconds later, and it was excruciating. The pepper mixture seared my skin, the agony unbearable. I screamed—a sound that ripped from the depths of my soul—but even that wasn’t enough to stop her. The commotion finally brought my father into the room. "Flo, stop! You’re hurting her!" His voice was frantic as he rushed to pull her away from me.

"She needs to learn!" Flo’s voice trembled with rage, as if her violence was justified, as if I somehow deserved this.

"Learn what? Tell me what she did! This is too much, Flo," Dad snapped, shielding me with his body. I sobbed uncontrollably behind him, my body trembling, my mind still trying to process the nightmare I was experiencing.

The tension in the room was suffocating as they argued, my father defending me while my mother’s rage simmered just below the surface. "Go to your room," Dad said, his voice softer now, but the command was clear. I obeyed, retreating to the small, dark space that I called my own, though it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a prison.

As I lay in bed, tears streaming down my face, the sting of the pepper still burning, I whispered through the sobs, "She can’t be my mother. What kind of mother does this to her child, especially on her birthday?"

The pain in my body was nothing compared to the ache in my heart. It was as if every strike, every cruel word had carved out a piece of my soul, leaving me hollow. I didn’t understand why she hated me so much. Wasn’t I her daughter? Wasn’t I supposed to be loved? Through my tears, I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, pouring out my pain in the only way I knew how—through words.

Today was my 14th birthday. Instead of joy, I received pain. How can you be my mother and treat me this way? I don’t believe you are my real mom. No mother would hurt her child like this, especially on her birthday. I want to know the truth. Why do you hate me so much?

Thelma

With shaky hands, I placed the letter on her dressing table, knowing she’d find it when she went to bed. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had left—my words, my pain, laid bare for her to see. Maybe she’d understand. Maybe she wouldn’t. But at least I had said something.

As I crawled back into bed, the darkness of the room seemed to close in on me, suffocating. My body was bruised, my skin still burning, but it was the pain in my heart that left me gasping for air. How could I ever heal from wounds this deep?

**************

This chapter is personal. It sheds light on the hidden struggles some endure, often in silence. For those who feel unseen, unheard—I see you. Stay strong.