Chapter 6: The Question Nobody Asked Me
1204 Words
I did not know it then, but that day was the beginning of something different.
I was still sitting quietly in that beautiful house, watching the television while my aunt and the woman continued their conversation outside.
The voices coming from the balcony were soft. I could not hear what they were saying, and I did not try to listen. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the television. The colorful pictures moved across the screen, but my mind was far away.
I was thinking about everything that had happened to me.
The places I had lived.
The people who had hurt me.
The words that had stayed in my heart long after they were spoken.
The promises that had been made but never kept.
I had already learned something no child should ever have to learn.
Never get too comfortable.
A beautiful place could still become painful.
A smiling face could hide cruelty.
Someone could welcome you today and reject you tomorrow.
That was what life had taught me.
So even though the house felt peaceful, a part of me refused to relax. My body was there, but my heart was still waiting for something to go wrong.
Every now and then, I noticed the woman looking toward me.
She was not staring in a rude way. It was more like she was trying to understand something she could not explain.
Each time our eyes almost met, I quickly looked back at the television.
I pretended not to notice.
I had become used to adults talking about me when they thought I was not listening.
I had become used to hearing my name followed by complaints.
"She's stubborn."
"She's difficult."
"She doesn't listen."
Those words had followed me for so long that I almost believed they were true.
So my heart quietly prepared itself.
Maybe this woman would hear those same stories.
Maybe she would believe them too.
Maybe before the day ended, she would look at me the same way everyone else did.
But something about her felt different.
There was no anger in her eyes.
No disgust.
No impatience.
Instead, there was something I had almost forgotten existed.
Concern.
Gentleness.
Kindness.
It made me uncomfortable because I did not know how to respond to it.
After a while, my aunt and the woman came back inside.
They were smiling as they walked into the sitting room.
The woman looked at Bose first and said something that made both of them laugh softly.
Then she turned to me.
"Cynthia," she called gently.
I looked up immediately.
My heart began to beat faster.
I was waiting for a question.
Waiting for a complaint.
Waiting to explain myself before I was even accused.
Instead, she smiled.
"How are you?" she asked softly.
I froze.
The question sounded so simple.
But to me, it felt unfamiliar.
Nobody had asked me that in a very long time.
Not because they truly wanted to know.
Most adults only wanted to know what I had done wrong.
Nobody had looked into my face and cared about how I was feeling.
For a few seconds, I did not know what to say.
Should I tell the truth?
Should I tell her that I was tired?
That I was confused?
That I missed my parents?
That I no longer knew where I belonged?
That every day I wondered if someone would shout at me again?
Would she believe me if I told her?
Or would she think I was lying?
The words remained trapped inside my chest.
Finally, I forced out the answer I had learned to give.
"I'm fine."
The words came out quietly.
Almost automatically.
I had said them so many times that they no longer meant anything.
"I'm fine."
Even when I wasn't.
Even when my heart was breaking.
Even when I cried myself to sleep.
Even when I felt invisible.
"I'm fine" had become the safest answer.
The woman looked at me for a few moments without speaking.
She smiled gently, but I noticed something in her eyes.
It was as if she knew my answer was hiding something.
Children can hide their words.
But sometimes their eyes tell the truth.
And maybe my eyes were saying everything my mouth was too afraid to speak.
The rest of the evening passed peacefully.
Something unusual happened.
Nobody shouted my name.
Nobody blamed me for anything.
Nobody watched me as if they expected me to make a mistake.
When it was time to eat, I was invited to the table.
I hesitated before sitting down.
Part of me expected someone to suddenly change their mind.
I kept waiting to hear harsh words.
But they never came.
I ate slowly, almost afraid to enjoy the food.
The meal was warm and delicious.
Every bite reminded me how long it had been since I had eaten without fear sitting beside me.
After eating, I returned to the sitting room.
The television was still on.
Laughter filled the house.
It sounded normal.
Ordinary.
But to me, it sounded like peace.
I watched my aunt and the woman talking together.
They smiled easily.
They laughed freely.
The atmosphere in the house felt light.
There was no tension.
No shouting.
No fear.
I found myself wondering who this woman really was.
Why did she seem so kind?
Why did she keep looking at me with such gentle eyes?
Why did she make me feel, even for a moment, that maybe I was not the terrible child everyone had described?
I did not know the answers.
I was still afraid to trust anyone.
Pain had taught me to protect my heart.
Hope felt dangerous.
Because every time I had hoped before, disappointment had followed.
Still...
Somewhere deep inside me, something small began to change.
It was only a tiny feeling.
Almost impossible to notice.
But it was there.
A tiny c***k in the wall I had built around my heart.
That night, as I lay down to sleep, I could not stop thinking.
I thought about the beautiful house.
The delicious food.
The peaceful atmosphere.
The gentle smiles.
The simple question.
"How are you?"
Nobody else would have thought much about those words.
But they stayed with me.
For the first time in a long time, I felt seen.
Not judged.
Not blamed.
Simply seen.
Before I closed my eyes, I whispered a quiet prayer.
"God, please let this be real."
"I don't want another place that will hurt me."
"I don't want another person who will pretend to care."
"I'm tired."
After everything I had been through, I was afraid of hoping.
Because I believed that happiness never stayed with me for long.
I thought if I allowed myself to smile, life would find another way to take it away.
But while I was lying there, holding onto my fears, I did not know something important had already begun.
The woman who kept looking at me had seen beyond my silence.
She did not mistake it for stubbornness.
She recognized it for what it truly was.
Pain.
And without realizing it, she had become one of the first people willing to ask the question nobody else had asked:
"What happened to this child?"
- Writer
