The Journey of Broken Faith

The day my mother died, the sky stayed silent. Only I was screaming. Inside. My name is Ayesha. I was sixteen. Our house had four people. My father, my mother, my brother, and me. But the truth was, we were five. The fifth one was fear. My father was not normal. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He doubted. Every day. Every minute. He doubted my mother. "Where were you?" "Who was that call?" My mother would just lower her eyes and cook. We were never allowed to go out. But that day... I lied. "Mama, I need notes from my classmate. Just for one hour." We slipped out. Like thieves. In our own home. When we came back, he was standing at the door. His face was blank. That was the worst part. He grabbed my mother’s arm. And then he started hitting. I screamed. "Papa stop! Papa please!" He kept hitting... until my mother fell. Until she didn’t get up. I woke up in a hospital bed. One full day had passed. My mother was gone. Because of doubt. Because of me. That was the day I learned: In this house, trust dies first. And people follow. To be continued...