Pretending at sunrise

CHAPTER 7

Chapter Seven – Roots and Ghosts

We fell asleep on call again, Bambina’s voice slipping through my phone and curling up beside me in my tiny dorm bunk. If I closed my eyes, it almost felt like she was right there on the mattress, warmth and breath in the darkness. It was nice—nicer than I like to admit. But even in the comfort, I could feel a shift. Maybe nothing had changed, but something would. I know myself: the fantasy is always safest, but sometimes, even I can see when the lines between hope and delusion begin to blur.

Let’s step away from Emily-and-Bambina for a minute.

I grew up with boys everywhere—four brothers, plus an army of cousins and relatives in the house. Being the only girl, and the last born? Horror movie—hectic, wild, never fully belonging, yet never truly alone. My mom was a force: hustling across Africa, chasing opportunities so my brothers and I could have more than she ever did. She was brave. She was everywhere and nowhere. I didn’t really get quality time. I wanted a mom who could just sit—just be—not always in motion, not always working. I envy those families that eat dinners together, or spend whole weekends just talking. But I get it: she built this life for us with her own hands, and that’s love too.

Still, sometimes I wanted softness. I wanted her.

But if my mother was the storm, my father was the calm. My dad, Joseph, will always be my first and truest role model—gentle, devoted, loving. He called me his princess, and I believed it. He was the kind of father who told my brothers—no yelling at Emily, no rough play, no beatings. Rules that made me feel special, even as they put a target on my back with the guys. Dad handled it, every time. He was steady, he was proud of me, and he made love feel simple.

Losing him… I don’t have enough words. It broke me in ways I’m still repairing. When our superman was gone, I lost my safety, my map, my sense of the future. At his funeral—while we were all still numb—his family started selling off his things. We were paralyzed by grief. My brothers tried to fight back, but my mom told them to let it go; she promised she’d replace what was lost, three times over. That’s her brand of hope, always forward, always unbroken even when everything falls apart.

But then she got sick, too. Money bled away on treatments for both of them. I remember crying out—angry, scared, ten years old and already so tired. Nobody helped us. Nobody could. We started over from scratch. Slowly, my mom found new faith, not Christianity anymore, but her own path. I guess we all found new ways to cope, to carry on.

We’re okay now, more or less. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder about everything we lost and everything we survived. That’s why, at the end of the day, it’s always been just us—me and my family, against everything. Moving schools, I chose the toughest one I could—Army Command. Maybe I thought discipline or pain would make me stronger. Maybe I just needed to prove I could survive anything. That’s when I met depression, quiet and deadly, hiding in the hallways in a uniform just like everybody else.