Dark Rainbow

Rach POV

4:30 p.m.

I arrived at the housing compound I called home—well, my grandparents' home. I got off the bus and started walking towards the house while texting Gage that I'd arrived safely and would catch up with him later. Familiar faces greeted me along the way with small pleasantries. Almost everyone knew me, and everyone knew one another. After all, I'd grown up in this neighbourhood. But the moment I caught sight of the house, that familiar heaviness and guilt began creeping back. My grandmother was outside watering the plants. I stopped a little distance away and watched her for a moment—the woman who had embraced me, loved me, and scolded me when I needed it. My throat tightened as tears began to form, but I quickly forced them back and put on a cheerful expression. I hid behind a colourful smile, masking the lies I was about to tell her. No, I'd never wanted to lie or deceive her. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to do better for her, but life had never been easy for me. Somehow, it had always been this way.

“Ma,” I called cheerfully as I walked closer. When I realised I was still too far away for her to hear, I called out again, louder this time. Although she wore a hearing aid, her hearing had continued to deteriorate with age. She looked up and smiled before walking over to open the front gate. “You bought groceries again, Rach?” she asked. It was always the first question she asked whenever I came home. Rach was simply what everyone called me. My real name was Racheal, though Gage still didn't know that. I'd tell him when the time was right. “Yes, Ma. Just a few things. Have you eaten lunch? What did you cook?” I asked. “Yes, I have. I made some fried rice and vegetables. Go freshen up first, then come and eat.” Just like that, the familiar conversation flowed naturally between grandmother and granddaughter, as if nothing was wrong. I went straight to the kitchen, unpacked the groceries, and placed everything where it belonged. Later, I stood motionless beneath the cold shower, allowing the icy water to run over me as I tried to numb my thoughts and emotions. I knew that sooner or later, the relatives who had played such a significant role in my life would see through my façade. Yet the deepest pain came from deceiving my grandmother. I'd told her I was working at a small health clinic when, in reality, I'd been unable to secure the job because of the long commute and my lack of transportation. For months, I'd pawned my gold jewellery and pretended the money was my monthly salary. To keep her from finding out, I'd even replaced the pawned jewellery with imitation pieces. I couldn't turn to my father for help. He had been one of the biggest reasons for my emotional breakdown. His selfishness and the life he'd built with his new family had left wounds that had never truly healed.

I'd been only six years old when my father brought his girlfriend home to meet me. I was a cheerful, bubbly little girl who had been raised by my paternal grandparents since I was six months old, after my mother passed away from an illness. At the time, my father was an engineer in the Royal Air Force. Before his transfer to another state, my mother had insisted on taking me with them, despite my grandmother's concerns that travelling with a newborn would be difficult. According to my grandmother, my mother had quietly said that I would soon return to live with her. At the time, my grandmother hadn't understood what those words meant. Only later did she realise that my mother had known she didn't have much time left. She'd simply wanted to spend every possible moment with her daughter before saying goodbye forever.

A knock on the bathroom door pulled me from my spiralling thoughts. My grandmother had come to check on me, concerned by the silence. Apart from the steady sound of running water, there hadn't been a single noise coming from inside. I quickly turned off the shower and came out, pretending everything was fine. I ate my meal while absentmindedly watching a TV show, but my grandmother sensed that something was wrong and asked if I was okay. I simply smiled and lied, telling her that work had been a little tiring that day. After the meal, I helped clean the kitchen and wash the dishes before asking her to get some rest. Then my phone beeped. I looked at the screen. Gage: Hey, Reen. Free to talk? I just got off work. I smiled and replied, Rach: Yeah, sure. Would you like me to call? I stared at the screen for a moment. I'd decided it was time to come clean about myself. Gage: I'll call. Give me a few minutes. I smiled at the message before stepping outside and sitting on the swing on my grandmother's front porch. I looked up at the cloudy sky and let out a slow breath.

I couldn't help wondering how wonderful it would be if I could turn back time and return to my childhood—a time when my father had truly been my dad. But I knew nothing would change. Perhaps I would only make a few wiser decisions. I would have studied harder. Not that I regretted my school days; in fact, they were some of the best years of my life. Although most of my pain began during that period, school had also been my escape from the emotional turmoil at home. Everything started after my father remarried. Almost overnight, I found myself with a stepmother named Mal. I was just over six years old when I began noticing the changes. Since I'd been living with my grandparents from the age of six months, my father used to spend weekends with me, taking me out and spending time together. Then, almost overnight, his visits became less frequent. Fortunately, his siblings—my aunts and uncles—were living under the same roof as my grandparents. Their presence helped distract me from the growing feeling of being left behind. I was especially close to my Aunt Jane and her husband, Uncle Ethan. In fact, Uncle Ethan became my favourite. His kindness and care slowly began filling the gap left by my father's absence.

Within a year, I started primary school. My grandfather would usually take me to school on his motorcycle. It was an adjustment, and I often wondered why my father wasn't there like the other children's parents. He still took me to his house occasionally, especially during school holidays, but leaving my grandmother behind was never easy. I'd secretly pack one of her blouses or even a small handkerchief because having something that belonged to her brought me comfort. My father's house never felt like home. During the day, both my father and stepmother would leave for work, leaving me alone in the quiet house. Before long, I realised I actually preferred those empty hours. The silence was far less awkward than trying to fit into a place where I never truly belonged. As time went on, my stepmother began complaining about the smallest things. If I spent five extra minutes in the shower, she'd complain. If I ate a little more than usual, she'd complain. Soon, everything became a comparison—my studies, my appearance, the way I dressed, even the way I looked. What hurt most was hearing her blame my grandmother for everything, claiming that she'd spoiled me. The worst part was that my father rarely defended or supported either of us.

Life moved quickly, and I adapted to the changes, even to the teasing remarks from my Aunt Tee, Dad's youngest sister, who would tell me, “Your dad is no longer yours. He will forget you soon.” I saw my father only rarely, and there were hardly any phone calls. My stepmother's subtle, pricking torments were constant whenever we met. Yet somehow, I managed to forget those things easily.

My grandparents' home was my safe haven—the only place where I truly felt I belonged. I had neighbourhood friends and schoolmates around my age, and we grew up together, sharing countless happy moments. I also had several younger cousins whom I babysat whenever they visited my grandmother's house. They looked up to me as an older sister, and those little ones became the people I loved most. At ten, I was told I'd become a big sister. I now have a half-brother.

Having grown up with my grandparents, I naturally became attached to babies and young children. I'd often helped my grandmother care for newborns and younger cousins whenever they visited, so it was only natural that I became attached to the little boy, Mark. Two years later, another sibling arrived—a half-sister named Ash. I loved them both. I babysat them, cared for them whenever they stayed at my grandparents' house, and looked after them whenever I visited my father's home.