Beneath the Weight of Silence

Chapter 3 Empty

“Ms.Laner. Your papa calling you to go home in the morning."

Another call. Another order. One of my father’s men. Always the same. No care, no concern. Just a command. Just another reason to return to a house full of anger, full of words meant to break me.

“Tell him. I’m not going. I have things to do.” I hang up. Tss.

The silence settles around me again.

I woke up in the morning, the cool breeze hitting my face. Forty floors up. My condo, my sanctuary. I sip from my wine glass—not coffee, because why not? It’s 7:09 a.m. and I feel empty.

Why do they think that if you have everything, you’ll be happy? I’ve got the space, the things, the comforts, but nothing fills the hollow inside. I stand there, staring out at the city, wondering—what’s the point of all this? What’s the purpose of living?

Another day. Same questions. Same emptiness.

I’m 20, but it feels like I’m already running out of time. I finished my business degree because that’s what my dad wanted, but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care about the money, the promotions, the meetings. I just want something real, something that means something. Something outside of all this.

If my dad hadn’t pushed me into this world when I was in school, maybe I’d be happy now. Maybe I’d be doing something else, something I actually care about. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so... stuck. But I’ll never know, will I?

Sometimes I wonder, what if Mama hadn’t died so early? What if I answered that call that night? What if I’d been there, what if I had been more present? Maybe I wouldn’t feel so lonely now. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck in this weird limbo, caught between who I am and who I’m supposed to be. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m just floating, waiting for something to happen.

So, after having one of those emotional relapses, I made the decision to go visit my rose. I know, it might sound weird, but that’s how I always think of my mom—my rose. It’s like, she was the one who always bloomed for me, even when everything else felt gray and uncertain. The thing is, no matter how many years pass, I still find myself missing her in ways I can’t even explain.

On my way to the cemetery, I made a pit stop at a flower shop. I picked up two types of roses—red ones and white ones. Red for love, white for remembrance. It was like a little tradition I’ve kept. My mama loved red and white roses. I still remember the day she bought me a massive bouquet of them when I graduated high school—so many that I could barely hold them all. She smiled at me, all proud, and said they were for my “new beginning.” I didn’t really get it at the time, but looking back now, it’s like she was passing me on her strength, her love. I miss her so much.

When I finally reached her grave, I sat down beside her tombstone, and for a moment, it felt like the wind was doing more than just blowing. It felt like it was comforting me, like a hug from her. It sounds crazy, but sometimes I think that’s her way of telling me everything’s going to be okay. Maybe that’s her way of saying, “I’m still here with you, in some way.” Or maybe I just want it to be. Maybe it was her—my Rose.

I spoke out loud, even though I knew no one could hear me. "Hi. Are you okay there?" My voice cracked and, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could finally break. I realized then just how much I’ve been holding in. I’ve spent so much time pushing everything down, acting like I’m fine, but in that moment, everything came rushing back. The things I never said. The things I never did. All the regrets that have been eating away at me.

I never called her “mama.” I always called her Doc. I guess it just felt more fitting, because she was a surgeon, a woman who was always working, always tired from her long shifts, always doing more than anyone could expect of her. She’d come home late, and I’d be half-asleep on the couch, and instead of resting, she’d always check on me, asking, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Is something wrong?” And what did I always say? “I’m fine, Doc. Go get some rest.” That was our routine. That was it. Nothing deeper, nothing more vulnerable. I thought I was being cool, maybe. I thought I was too “grown” to be all emotional. But now, I just wish I could go back and tell her how much I loved her. I wish I could have been more open with her.

Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe she would’ve felt more appreciated, or at least a little bit less alone. I can’t help but think that if I’d been a little more present, a little more affectionate, maybe her last years would’ve been happier. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt so overburdened. But I didn’t show it. I was busy acting like I didn’t need her, like I didn’t need to be close to her. And now, it’s too late to change that.

I always knew my mom was emotional. She’d always care so deeply for everyone, always worried, always checking in on us. But it was never the same with my dad. He was always so wrapped up in his work, so professional, always focused on his career, never really present. I mean, he loved us, I guess, but it wasn’t the same. My mom was always the one who tried to make us feel safe, to make us feel like we mattered. She would’ve given up everything for us. I didn’t always see it when I was younger. I was too busy being distant, too busy with my own world, my own problems, to really realize how much she was sacrificing.

When I was younger, I was so detached. The only people I really talked to were the helpers at home. My yaya, the staff... I was always just there, moving through life without really seeing how much she gave, how much she sacrificed. If only I’d been more open, more present for her, maybe she would have had a different life—a happier one, at least in her last years.

But now, I’m left with these memories, and the roses. A red one for love, a white one for remembrance. And a heart full of regret.

"About to cry, huh?" His voice was deep, smooth—something about it made my heart skip a beat. It was the kind of voice that hit me with this weird mix of nerves and comfort, like he knew exactly what to say without trying. I looked up, and there he was—standing there like he was meant to show up right at that moment. Maybe he was the light I didn’t even know I needed, the one that could break me out of this endless cycle of dark, heavy days.