A Suitcase Of Sillence
719 Words
When things became too tense, too unstable, Serena was sent to stay with Uncle Matthew “temporarily.”
When Serena arrived at Uncle Matthew’s house, she carried one suitcase and too much silence.
The house stood at the end of a narrow street, paint peeling at the edges, curtains always half-drawn as if the sunlight wasn’t welcome inside. It wasn’t falling apart, just unloved.
Much like the people who lived there.
Uncle Matthew opened the door before she could knock twice.
“You’re taller,” he said, not warmly, not coldly, just observant. “Come in.”
No hug.
No “I’m sorry.”
No “You’ll be okay here.”
Just space.
The first thing Serena noticed was the quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Heavy quiet. The kind that pressed against your ears and made you aware of every breath you took.
“You’ll sleep in the spare room,” he said. “Don’t touch my office. And keep your things tidy.”
She nodded.
She had become very good at nodding.
“You’re not a child anymore,” he would say flatly.
“You should be grateful I took you in.”
His house was neat but cold. There was no warmth in the walls. No laughter in the air.
At first, she tried to be perfect.
She woke up early. Cleaned dishes before being asked. Folded laundry neatly. Cooked simple meals when he came home late from work.
She thought if she caused no trouble, she might earn kindness.
But Uncle Matthew was not a cruel man.
He was something worse.
Indifferent.
He never asked about school.
Never mentioned her parents.
Never spoke her name unless necessary.
“You’re old enough to handle yourself,” he would say whenever she hesitated.
And so she did.
She handled herself.
At night, Serena would sit on her narrow bed, staring at the small framed photo of her parents she kept hidden in a drawer.
There had been a time when she believed love could fix anything.
Now she wondered if she had only delayed the inevitable.
The divorce had hardened her parents.
Uncle Matthew had hardened her.
She stopped expecting calls.
Stopped checking her phone during dinner.
Stopped hoping someone would say, “Come home.”
Because she didn’t know where home was anymore.
Matriculation day arrived quietly.
She had worked hard to get there, late-night studying, scholarship applications, determination fueled by the need to prove she wasn’t a burden.
She ironed her blouse carefully that morning.
Uncle Matthew was reading the newspaper.
“I have my matriculation ceremony today,” she said softly.
He didn’t look up.
“Hmm.”
That was all.
At the university courtyard, Serena stood among laughter and celebration. Parents held bouquets. Cameras flashed. Families wrapped their children in pride.
She stood alone.
She smiled for herself.
Clapped for herself.
Took a photo of herself.
And in that moment, she understood something painful and freeing:
No one was coming to rescue her.
That night, something small but sharp happened.
She accidentally left a light on in the hallway.
Uncle Matthew sighed when he noticed.
“You waste everything,” he muttered. “Electricity. Food. Space.”
She froze.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He looked at her then — really looked at her — as if calculating.
“You’re not a child anymore, Serena. If you want to stay here, act like you deserve it.”
Deserve it.
The word echoed in her chest.
Had she not deserved her parents staying together?
Had she not deserved warmth?
Had she not deserved someone clapping for her today?
She went to bed without dinner.
Not because he told her to.
But because something inside her had shut down.
She lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The room felt smaller than ever.
She thought about the river of her childhood happiness, how easily it had dried up.
She thought about her parents, separated and silent.
The decision wasn’t dramatic.
It was steady.
She packed a small bag, clothes, the photo, her notebook.
When she stepped into the hallway, the house was dark and still.
She paused at the door.
For a moment, she waited for something, a voice, a reason to stay.
There was nothing.
So she opened the door.
And walked into the quiet morning.
- Writer
