Where Love Never Looked

I stand here now—on the rooftop, alone. Below, I hear murmurs, curious voices blending with the wind. “What is that little girl doing up there?” Their words float up to me, but none of them truly see me. They only see the danger— Not the broken child behind it. I close my eyes and let the wind brush against my skin, As if the breeze could carry away the pain. I’m waiting... Hoping to hear someone call my name. Someone I’ve always longed to hear— My mom. And my dad. start, I was only six years old when I first understood what it meant to not belong— Not just in a house, But in a family. In a world that was supposed to love me first. My parents never truly welcomed me. Not with open arms. Not with kind eyes. I never understood why. I still don’t. Each night, I asked myself the same silent questions: What did I do wrong? Why do they look at me as if I should have never existed? When I started Kinder 1, they sent me to a public school. My brother, though— He wore a private school uniform, Carried by the hands that held him gently, Eyes that followed him proudly. He had everything. While I... I was forgotten in the quiet corners of the house, Learning how to disappear. No one taught me how to write my name, How to color inside the lines, How to be a child. Not Mama. Not Papa. Not even Kuya. So I clung to the kindness of my teacher, Ma’am Berry. Every day, I approached her with trembling hands and downcast eyes, “Ma’am... can you please teach me how to write?” And she did— And for the briefest moment, I felt seen. By the time I reached Kinder 2, The ache of being unloved had already made a home inside me. A home with no warmth. No light. One morning, I woke up before the sun, Before the laughter of my brother filled the kitchen. He had school at 6:30. I rose with an empty stomach and hopeful eyes. Maybe, just maybe, they left something for me. But the kitchen shelves were bare. They had eaten without me—again. I dragged a chair across the floor, Climbed it with caution, Eyes locked on a single box of Cococrunch. A small comfort. Something to hold onto. I almost reached it— Almost. Then the world tilted, and I fell. Pain sliced through my foot. Warm blood began to stain the floor. I limped to Mama and Papa’s room, Not to wake them— But to find something that could help. Instead, I found picture frames. Dozens of them. Smiling faces. Happy moments. But not mine. Only them. Only Kuya. Always Kuya. It was as if I had never existed at all. I found a band-aid. I pressed it to my bleeding skin like a child who knew no one else would. Then I stood, Forced a smile, And jumped up and down— Pretending the pain was gone. Pretending I was okay. I wore my uniform. Dabbed powder on my cheeks, just like Mama does. Maybe if I looked pretty, They would finally see me. I had no money for fare, So I walked to school with tired legs and heavier thoughts. And as I passed by the neighbors, I heard their whispers— “Whose child is that?” “Doesn’t she have parents?” Their words didn’t just sting. They buried themselves deep into a wound far worse than the one on my foot. But I wiped away my tears before they could fall. I smiled like I had no reason to cry. And I walked into school Like I wasn’t breaking From the inside out.