Feelings -- Who cares?

I don’t know if what I’m about to tell you is a story, a memory, or just something my imagination turned into over the years. All I know is—it became the untold story of a dark secret, buried so deep that even time gave up on it. The statute of limitations has long expired, yet the weight of it still lingers, heavy and unspoken.

There were days I wanted to scream, to break everything around me, to make the world feel a fraction of what I felt inside. But I couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to react—how to even be myself.

So now, dear reader, I leave it to you. Listen carefully. Judge this story for what it is—or whatever you think it might be.

I was around seven or eight when it happened.We were a poor family—barely surviving, but surviving nonetheless. My father drank almost every day, yet somehow still managed to bring home just enough for us to eat. My mother worked tirelessly, taking small jobs wherever she could, mending clothes, washing dishes—anything to keep the house running.

We lived in a small, two-room house. One room was ours; the other was rented out to another family. Life was simple then—or at least, that’s what I believed.

Among the tenants was a boy, much older than me, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Time has blurred many details, but not him. Some memories fade, but some never stop echoing. Some wounds never close—they just learn to stay quiet.

That boy used to call me over when I played outside. He would make me lie beside him and do things I couldn’t understand. I was too young to even know that something wrong was happening. Back then, no one taught us about “bad touch.” We didn’t even have those words.

It went on for months—until one day, my mother walked in.
I still remember her face.
She pulled me out by my arm, locked the door, and beat me until my cries filled the small room. But she didn’t explain. She never said why she was angry or what I had done wrong. She only said, “Don’t go near him again.”

But she never said a single word to him.

That silence broke something inside me.
She still spoke to his family, still laughed with them, still shared food. And I stood there, watching, confused and scared, not understanding why I was the one being punished. I didn’t know what had been taken from me, only that something had.

Soon after, we moved away.
Life went on, as if nothing had happened.

Years later, when I was grown, that man came to visit my mother.
“Sister, I’m getting married,” he said cheerfully.
The sound of his voice froze me. I hid inside my room, afraid he might see me. My mother was smiling, talking to him like he was family—as if he hadn’t stolen my childhood.

That night, the memories came back like shadows from a dark corner. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dirty, small, and terrified all over again. From that day, I began to distance myself from everyone.

Books became my only escape.
I studied relentlessly, determined to get away. When I finally earned a scholarship to study in a hostel, I left without looking back.

At the hostel, I saw love for the first time—real love. Parents visited their children with snacks, hugs, laughter. They listened. They cared. I watched them from afar, feeling a strange ache in my chest. Is this what love looks like? I wondered.

My father never visited me. Not once in six years.
My mother came a few times, but we barely spoke.

Eventually, I grew older, finished my studies, and went back home. My father’s health was failing. My parents began forcing me to marry. I resisted, but it didn’t matter—my life was already decided for me.

On my wedding day, as I smiled for the guests, I saw him.
The same man.
The same eyes.
“You’ve grown up so much,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

His words made my skin crawl. I wanted to tear off the dress, to vanish, to scream. My mother had invited him—the man who had destroyed me—and she smiled at him as though he were a cherished guest.

But I stayed silent. Like always.

After marriage, I moved far away. My husband was kind, gentle. For the first time, I thought maybe I could start over. Maybe life could be normal.

When I got pregnant, he cared for me tenderly. I almost believed I was lucky. But when I spoke fondly of my mother one day, telling him about her struggles, he grew angry. “Don’t talk about them again,” he snapped. After that, I never did.

When my son was born, everything changed again. Watching him grow, innocent and carefree, brought back my own lost childhood. The nightmares returned. I’d wake up crying, calling my son’s name. My husband would ask what was wrong, and I’d say “just stress.” But he’d shout back, “What stress? You’re just sitting at home and eating!”

He never knew how deep the scars ran—or how much effort it took just to breathe normally.
After that, I couldn’t let him touch me again. I couldn’t bear the thought of having another child.

Then, one day, it all came crashing down again.

There was an old man in our apartment complex—around sixty. He stared at me often. At first, I ignored it. My friends said, “He looks at everyone like that.” But it grew worse. He started sitting near my door, peering inside, sometimes into my bedroom window. He even tried to befriend my son.

That was when I broke.

I told my husband. He waited, watched for himself, and one night, after seeing it with his own eyes, he went and warned the old man. The next day, the man disappeared.

But that night, my husband turned to me and said,
“Why was he only looking at you? There are hundreds of women here.”

That single sentence shattered everything I had rebuilt.
It was my mother’s silence all over again—just in a different voice.

I didn’t answer him. I just sat quietly, staring into the darkness. I knew, deep down, that my story would be buried with me one day—like all the others that no one ever wanted to hear.