Barrister Ada

Chapter 1: The Night I Ran The walls of our house were tired. They held the heavy, suffocating silence that always came right before the storm. I had grown up watching those walls absorb everything—every insult, every scream, every slammed door, every broken plate. Sometimes I wondered if the walls remembered the things we tried so hard to forget. The cracks running across them seemed to tell their own story, spreading a little farther each year, just like the cracks in our family. What had started eighteen years ago as a forced marriage after a teenage pregnancy had hardened into a prison for all of us. My parents had never really loved each other. At least, not in the way I imagined love was supposed to look. Their marriage had been arranged by circumstances, shame, and the fear of what the community would say. My mother had been barely more than a child when she became pregnant with me. My father, young and irresponsible himself, had been pushed into marriage before either of them understood what they were signing themselves up for. Eighteen years later, the consequences of that decision lived inside our small house. Faded yellow paint peeled from the walls in jagged strips. The cracked ceiling sagged dangerously in one corner whenever heavy rain fell. The windows were old, their wooden frames swollen from years of moisture. The worn foam of our parlor chairs offered no comfort, and the floor always seemed to carry a thin layer of dust no matter how often my mother swept it. But the worst thing wasn't the poverty. It was the shouting. Almost every night, the routine was the same. The heavy thud of the front door. The thick smell of cheap alcohol. Then silence. A dangerous silence. After that came the voices. At first, my father's voice would be low and irritated. My mother would answer quietly, trying to calm him down. But somehow, no matter how carefully she chose her words, things always escalated. The voices became roars. Accusations flew across the room. Sometimes a plate would crash against the wall. Sometimes a chair would fall. Sometimes there would be a long silence that frightened me more than the shouting because I knew something worse might follow. And finally, when everything was over, I would hear the muffled, broken sound of my mother crying in the dark. I hated those nights. I hated my father for creating them. But sometimes, I hated myself even more because I never knew what to do. At sixteen, my only escape was school. I was an SS2 boarding student, and within those school gates, I was quiet. I was safe. There, nobody knew what happened inside our house. I buried myself in textbooks and assignments, pretending that if I studied hard enough, I could build a different life for myself. I wanted to become a lawyer. Not just any lawyer. I wanted to wear the black gown and white wig I had seen in pictures and stand confidently in a courtroom. I wanted to speak clearly, intelligently, and without fear. Most of all, I wanted to speak for women like my mother—women who had had their voices stolen by fear, poverty, and circumstances. Whenever I imagined my future, I never imagined myself trapped in that house. But school was only a temporary shield. During the midterm break, I had no choice but to return to the war zone for one long, terrifying week. I had counted the days until I could go back. On that Saturday, I had spent most of the afternoon pretending to read. My mother was in the kitchen, preparing the little food we had. There wasn't much. She had become good at making small portions look bigger than they were. By evening, the sky had darkened. The air was unusually heavy, and the neighborhood smelled of damp earth. Somewhere nearby, children were still playing, their laughter drifting through the open windows. For a few minutes, everything felt almost normal. Then my father came home. Just after 9 p.m., the neighborhood generator noise suddenly died down. The darkness swallowed the street. And the nightmare started again. I was sitting quietly in the parlor when I heard the front door slam. My body stiffened. I didn't need to see him to know he was home. Then came the familiar smell. Alcohol. My stomach tightened. I lowered my eyes and pretended to concentrate on the book in my lap. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he would go to bed. Maybe— "Where is the food?" His voice came from the kitchen. I heard my mother answer. "I've kept it for you." "What food?" "The rice." There was a pause. Then I heard something hit the kitchen table. "You call this food?" My heart began beating faster. I slowly closed my book. "There's nothing else in the house," my mother said softly. "Nothing else?" His voice grew louder. I could hear my mother's footsteps moving backward. Then came the first insult. Then another. Then another. I stood up. My mind told me to stay where I was. My heart told me to run. But run where? This was my home. At least, it was supposed to be. I walked toward the kitchen. What I saw made my chest tighten. My father was backing my mother into the corner. His face was twisted with anger. His eyes were bloodshot, and his breathing was heavy. My mother looked smaller than ever. Her collarbones showed sharply beneath her skin because she hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. Stress and poverty had slowly taken the strength from her body. There was no money, no security, no one to protect her. Only endless, bone-crushing stress. "Please," she whispered. "Don't tell me please!" He shoved her shoulder. I froze. "Stop." The word escaped my mouth before I could stop it. Both of them looked at me. For a moment, nobody spoke. My father's eyes narrowed. "You?" I swallowed. "Leave her alone." His expression changed. He laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the kind that made fear crawl down my spine. "So now you are brave?" I said nothing. "You think because you read books you are better than us?" "No." "Then why are you talking to me like that?" "I'm not." "Useless girl." The words struck harder than they should have. I had heard them before. Many times. But that night, they felt different. He took a step toward me. "Useless girl," he repeated. "All you know how to do is sit down and read. You think those books will save you?" I stepped backward. He stepped forward. My fingers trembled. Then he raised his hand. Everything happened at once. My mother threw herself between us. She pulled me behind the thin fabric of her wrapper, her body trembling even though she was clearly terrified. "Leave my child." Her voice was weak. But there was something fierce underneath it. My father stared at her. I could feel my mother's body shaking against mine. I wrapped my arms around her waist. "Mummy..." "Don't move," she whispered. My heart slammed against my ribs. I knew that look in my father's eyes. I had seen it too many times. If I stayed, someone was going to get seriously, irreversibly hurt that night. Maybe my mother. Maybe me. Maybe both of us. And suddenly, something inside me broke. I couldn't just watch anymore. I couldn't keep hiding behind school. I couldn't keep waiting for someone else to rescue us. Someone had to do something. My eyes moved toward the parlor door. Outside, the street was dark. Rain began tapping against the roof. I looked back at my mother. Her eyes met mine. For one brief second, I saw everything she had sacrificed. I saw the young girl she must have been before poverty and marriage swallowed her dreams. I saw the woman who had spent eighteen years surviving. And I knew I couldn't leave her behind forever. But I also knew I couldn't save her from inside that house. "I have to get help," I whispered to myself. The words barely tasted like air. "For my mother." I took another breath. "For us." My father shouted something behind me. I didn't wait to hear it. While his attention was on my mother, I spun around and threw open the parlor door. The street was pitch black. Rain had started falling harder now, cold drops striking my bare arms. For one second, I stood there. Terrified. I didn't have a plan. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know who would help me. I only knew that staying was no longer an option. So I ran. I ran barefoot into the rain. My feet slapped against the wet tar as I pushed myself forward. The rain soaked my clothes within seconds, but I didn't stop. Behind me was the house. Behind me was my father. Behind me was the life I had known for sixteen years. Ahead of me was darkness. But somehow, that darkness felt safer. I ran past houses with closed doors and windows covered by curtains. I passed the small provision shop at the corner, already shut for the night. Water splashed around my ankles as I struggled to breathe. Every sound made me turn. A barking dog. A distant motorcycle. The rumble of thunder. Footsteps behind me that might not have been footsteps at all. I didn't know where I was going. I only knew I needed to find someone. The police. A neighbor. A relative. Anyone. Someone who could stop my father. Someone who could protect my mother. Someone who could help us escape. But as I ran deeper into the night, another thought began forming in my mind. What if nobody helped me? What if I went back? What if my mother was hurt because I left? The questions followed me like shadows. I almost stopped. Almost. Then I remembered my father's raised hand. I remembered my mother's trembling body standing between us. And I kept running. I didn't know it then, as my feet slapped against the wet tar and the rain blurred my vision, that one desperate step out of that door would change the entire trajectory of my life. That night, I thought I was running away from my father. I didn't know I was running toward the woman I would eventually become.