Chapter 10 The Light We Leave Behind
1307 Words
The first day of classes began with the scent of sampaguita drifting through the open windows of San Rafael High School. Malliah stood at the front of her new classroom, chalk in hand, heart steady. She had taught before—guest lectures, mentorship sessions, workshops—but this was different. This was hers.
The room was modest: wooden desks, faded posters, a whiteboard that had seen better days. But it was filled with light. Literally and figuratively. She had spent the weekend decorating the walls with quotes from her favorite authors, student artwork, and a bulletin board titled “Words That Changed Me.” Each week, students would pin lines from books, songs, or their own writing.
She wrote the date on the board. Then, beneath it, a question:
What does your voice sound like when no one’s listening?
The students trickled in—some curious, some sleepy, some skeptical. She greeted each one with a smile, learning names, watching faces. She didn’t rush into the syllabus. Instead, she handed out blank index cards.
“Write your answer,” she said. “No names. Just truth.”
They wrote in silence.
When they finished, she collected the cards and read them aloud.
“It sounds like a whisper, I’m afraid to say.” “It sounds like music I don’t know how to play.” “It sounds like nothing. I don’t think I have one.”
Malliah paused. “You do,” she said. “You all do. And this year, we’re going to find it.”
The first day of classes began with the scent of sampaguita drifting through the open windows of San Rafael High School. Malliah stood at the front of her new classroom, chalk in hand, heart steady. She had taught before—guest lectures, mentorship sessions, workshops—but this was different. This was hers.
The room was modest: wooden desks, faded posters, a whiteboard that had seen better days. But it was filled with light. Literally and figuratively. She had spent the weekend decorating the walls with quotes from her favorite authors, student artwork, and a bulletin board titled “Words That Changed Me.” Each week, students would pin lines from books, songs, or their own writing.
She wrote the date on the board. Then, beneath it, a question:
What does your voice sound like when no one’s listening?
The students trickled in—some curious, some sleepy, some skeptical. She greeted each one with a smile, learning names, watching faces. She didn’t rush into the syllabus. Instead, she handed out blank index cards.
“Write your answer,” she said. “No names. Just truth.”
They wrote in silence.
When they finished, she collected the cards and read them aloud.
“It sounds like a whisper, I’m afraid to say.” “It sounds like music I don’t know how to play.” “It sounds like nothing. I don’t think I have one.”
Malliah paused. “You do,” she said. “You all do. And this year, we’re going to find it.”
By the second week, the classroom had transformed. Students stayed after class to ask questions, share poems, or simply sit in the quiet. Malliah began each lesson with a prompt—sometimes a quote, sometimes a question, sometimes a single word.
One day, she wrote “Inheritance” on the board.
“What do you carry that wasn’t yours to choose?” she asked.
The responses were raw.
“My father’s silence.” “My mother’s fear of being seen.” “My grandmother’s strength.”
Malliah listened. She didn’t correct grammar or punctuation. She circled sentences that felt true. “This line,” she’d say, pointing to a phrase, “feels like it came from somewhere deep. Hold onto it.”
She saw herself in them.
She saw the girl who once sat beneath a mango tree, afraid to speak. She saw the girl who mistook quiet for invisibility. She saw the girl who had loved someone silently and learned to love herself loudly.
In late February, she received news from her publisher: her second book, Echoes in the Garden, was ready for release. It was a collection of essays, poems, and letters—some written to her younger self, some to Lianne, some to the women she had mentored over the years.
She held the proof copy in her hands, heart full.
The cover was simple: a sketch of the mango tree, this time with roots visible beneath the soil. The subtitle read: Stories of Growth Beneath Stillness.
Joshua called that evening.
“I saw the announcement,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“I ordered five copies.”
She laughed. “Five?”
“One for me. One for my office. One for my mother. One for Clarisse. And one for the writing center.”
Malliah smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m proud,” he said. “And I love you.”
She paused.
“I love you too.”
The writing center was nearly finished.
Joshua had overseen the design, working with local carpenters and artists to create a space that felt open, warm, and rooted. It was built around a mango tree, with benches beneath its shade, shelves for books, and a small stage for readings.
They named it The Quiet Flame Center.
On opening day, Malliah stood beneath the tree, surrounded by students, neighbors, and friends. She read a passage from Echoes in the Garden:
“We don’t always choose the stories we carry. But we can choose how we tell them. And in the telling, we heal.”
The crowd applauded.
Lianne stood beside her, beaming.
Joshua watched from the back, hand over his heart.
Life settled into a rhythm.
Malliah taught during the week, mentored on weekends, and wrote in the early mornings when the world was still. Her second book explored themes of memory, resilience, and the quiet strength of women who had endured without recognition.
It was well received.
But she didn’t chase reviews or sales.
She chased truth.
One afternoon, Lianne sat with her in the garden, flipping through Echoes in the Garden.
“There’s a chapter here,” she said, “about a mother who teaches her daughter to listen to silence. Was that about us?”
Malliah smiled. “It was inspired by us.”
Lianne leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you,” Malliah replied.
They sat in silence, letting the breeze speak.
In May, Malliah received an invitation to speak at a national educators’ summit. The theme was “Teaching as Legacy.” She hesitated at first—her health was stable, but she was cautious. Still, something in her stirred.
She accepted.
Her keynote was titled “The Light We Leave Behind.”
She spoke about her journey—from the quiet girl in the corner to the woman who built a writing center beneath a mango tree. She spoke about her students, her daughter, her books. She spoke about Joshua.
“Legacy isn’t loud. It isn’t always written in history books or carved into stone. Sometimes, it’s a sentence that stays with someone. A moment that shifts a life. A light that lingers.”
The audience rose to their feet.
Malliah bowed her head.
She had spoken.
And they had heard her.
That night, she returned to San Rafael and sat beneath the mango tree, journal open, pen in hand.
She wrote:
June 1 I used to fear fading. Now I understand that light doesn’t vanish. It travels. It touches. It continues. I am not fading. I am becoming.
She looked up at the stars.
And she whispered, “Thank you.”
- Writer
