Descendants of Mother Nature

The kitchen was thick with steam and the faint scent of something burnt probably from breakfast. My hands were buried in soapy water, scrubbing at plates that weren’t mine, like always. But I wasn’t really seeing the dishes. My eyes blurred, lost somewhere between the suds and the echo of my mother’s laugh that soft, fading sound I hadn’t heard in years. It drifted like a ghost through my thoughts, always just out of reach. Everything had changed since then. Now, the only thing my back carried was a long list of things no one ever thanked me for. I moved the sponge in circles, but my mind stayed still. Maybe if I’d just been better. Quieter. More useful… Maybe they would have loved me by now That thought sharp and familiar pressed against my chest like something trying to get out. I reached for the next dish. A delicate, floral teacup porcelain. My cousin’s favorite. My fingers slipped. A crack like lightning tore through the quiet. I froze. The cup hit the tile, shattering into jagged pieces that glittered like punishment on the floor. My heart slammed against my ribs. I dropped to my knees, hands shaking, whispering, “No, no, no…” like an apology, like a prayer I already knew wouldn’t be answered. Then Footsteps. Fast. Hard. The door slammed open. “What did you DO?” Her voice was a knife. Sharp, loud, soaked in poison. I tried to speak, but the words tangled in my throat. “I-I didn’t mean to I was just ..I’ll fix it” She didn’t care. She reached for the umbrella by the door the heavy one, the one no one was allowed to touch and stormed toward me. “You clumsy little parasite!” She raised it high, like she was delivering justice. I raised my arms, bracing for the hit, eyes squeezed shut. But it never came. Instead A pulse. Like thunder deep in my bones. A rush of heat and light, something ancient and wild ripping loose inside me. From my hands, something burst invisible, violent, real. She flew backward. Slammed against the wall with a scream and a thud. The umbrella clattered to the floor. Silence. Even the faucet stopped dripping, like the world was holding its breath. I stayed crouched there, arms still raised, chest heaving. But this time… I didn’t feel small. I felt… something. Power. Not anger. Not hate. Just this spark, this flame that said: enough. I lowered my arms slowly, staring at my trembling hands. “What… was that?