Morning light slipped through the gaps of our tin-roof house.
I woke to the sound of Mother kneading dough, her hands moving in a rhythm she had repeated for years. The smell of flour and yeast filled our tiny room—warm, simple, comforting.
I helped shape the bread while Bimo and Sari still slept, curled like kittens on the thin mattress. When I bent to fold the blankets, my fingers touched something hard beneath the pillow.
A photo album.
Old. Dusty. Hidden.
I knew I shouldn’t open it…
But curiosity is louder than rules.
On the first page, a young woman smiled under soft sunlight. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders, her eyes bright like she had never known struggle.
It was Mother.
Not the mother with tired eyes and rough hands I knew today.
This one looked like someone from a different world—clean, beautiful, glowing.
Beside her stood a teen boy in an expensive school uniform. Confident, handsome, smiling with his arm around her waist.
My heart thumped.
Before I could turn another page—
“Chiko?”
Mother’s voice came from outside.
I snapped the album shut and pushed it under the blanket. My chest felt hot.
She entered with plastic bags of groceries, rainwater dripping from the sides.
“Ready for school?” she asked softly.
I could only nod.
I wanted to ask about the photo, but her gentle eyes stopped my words at my throat.
---
Practice, classes, lunch—everything passed like a blur that day.
Only one thing replayed in my mind: Mother once lived a life far from this cramped home.
After school, I picked up the leftover bread from the canteen. Still so many unsold. That meant I’d be selling again tonight.
On my way home, I passed an empty public elementary school near the railway—usually quiet, abandoned except for community events.
But today it was crowded.
Teachers and neatly dressed students from a prestigious private school stood with boxes of packed meals. Laughter. Clean shoes stepping on muddy ground. A world so different from mine.
“Please line up, one by one,” a teacher said warmly.
Children from the neighborhood gathered with eager eyes. I stood in the back, holding my bag of bread, trying to look small.
At the front table stood a young girl, around fourth grade.
Short hair, clean uniform, small pink clip on her bangs.
Her smile was bright like a candle in the rain.
When it was my turn, she paused—
and stared at me longer than she stared at anyone.
“You’re older, right? Middle school?” she asked softly.
“Grade eight,” I answered, awkward.
She handed me the meal, but her hand didn’t let go right away.
Her eyes scanned my face slowly—confused, curious… almost familiar.
“You look like someone I know,” she whispered.
I blinked.
“Who?”
She shook her head and smiled, gentle and innocent.
“I’m Adel.”
Her name sank into me quietly, like a seed planted deep.
A teacher called her, and she turned away—
and whatever string had formed between us snapped for now.
I walked home with the warm meal in my hands, heart strangely full and empty at the same time.
---
That night, when Mother stepped out to buy oil, I opened the album again—quickly, guiltily.
Another photo.
Young Mother again, standing in front of a grand building that looked exactly like the private school I saw earlier.
Beside her, the same boy from the first picture.
His face… a little like Adel’s.
My heartbeat stumbled.
Footsteps.
I closed the album too late.
Mother entered.
Her eyes went straight to the book in my hand.
“Chiko… you opened this?”
“I—I was just curious, Ma.”
She took the album carefully, like holding a wound.
“Some memories…” her voice trembled,
“…are heavy to carry. You don’t need them yet.”
Questions burst in my head.
Who was the boy?
Why was Adel’s face so familiar?
Why did Mother look so different then?
But Mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.
So I swallowed all my questions like stones.
---
We shared the meal I got from Adel’s school that night.
Bimo and Sari ate happily, smiling with rice on their cheeks.
Mother smiled too, though sadness lingered deep behind it.
Rain began again, gentle and patient.
The single light flickered, and our shadows danced on the peeling wall.
I slept with my siblings huddled close, their breaths warm and steady.
My heart felt tight—not painful, but like a door was half-opened to something I wasn’t ready to see.
I didn’t know why.
Just a feeling, quiet and cold, telling me that life could change at any moment.
But for tonight—
we were together,
and that was enough.
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