The House Felt Smaller

The next page didn’t begin with excitement.

It began with a complaint.

And somehow—

that frightened me more.

I looked at the first line.

'my mother made my life hell.'

I smiled.

A small one.

“You really were dramatic.”

But I didn’t laugh this time.

Because maybe—

for the fourteen-year-old writing this—

it really did feel like hell.

I kept reading.

'She think if I can't do work at home I will not get any success in my life.'

That sounded exactly like my mother.

Not soft.

Not patient.

Never the type to explain things gently.

If a plate slipped from my hand—

I was careless.

If I forgot something—

I was irresponsible.

If I did something wrong—

somehow it became proof that I could do nothing right.

At fourteen, those words felt bigger than they probably were.

Children don’t hear lessons.

They hear judgments.

They don’t hear,

“I’m preparing you.”

They hear,

“You are not enough.”

And maybe—

that was what hurt the most.

Not the scolding.

Not the work.

The feeling that no matter what I did—

it was never enough.

But now—

reading this years later—

I understood something fourteen-year-old me never could.

My mother was never the villain of this story.

She was the person I loved most.

Maybe still the person I love most.

She did love me.

I know that now.

She just didn’t know how to show it softly.

Maybe life had taught her toughness—

so toughness was the only love she knew how to give.

Maybe she wasn’t trying to hurt me.

Maybe she was trying to prepare me for a world she knew would not be gentle.

But children don’t understand intentions.

They understand feelings.

And back then—

all I felt was hurt.

I looked back at the diary.

'I don't think so because I don't like work to do.'

That made me smile again.

Of course.

Classic fourteen-year-old logic.

No arguments.

Just honesty.

But slowly—

the page became heavier.

The house had become smaller during lockdown.

Too many people.

Too many voices.

Too little silence.

And somehow—

nowhere to place my feelings.

Not in my room.

Not at the dining table.

Not beside my family.

So I learned to hide them.

That became my special skill.

Looking normal.

Feeling terrible.

Smiling in front of everyone—

then quietly breaking somewhere else.

No one really noticed.

Maybe because I never let them.

Maybe because I had already learned that some pain is easier to swallow than explain.

I read the next line.

'I feel very lonely in the world.'

My fingers stopped.

There it was again.

Lonely.

Same word.

Different page.

Different age.

Still there.

Maybe some feelings really do grow with us.

I kept reading slowly now.

'Then I pray to God. That gave someone which can feel my feeling.'

I looked away from the diary.

Because I knew exactly what came after that.

The rooftop.

I never wrote that part.

But I remembered it.

Some nights—

after everyone slept—

I would quietly go upstairs.

To the rooftop.

That was my place.

Not because it solved anything.

But because it listened.

The village nights were peaceful.

No traffic.

No noise.

Just stars.

Wind.

And silence.

I would complain to the sky like it was a person.

Tell it everything I couldn’t tell anyone else.

And when the wind touched my face—

I used to imagine someone was consoling me.

Not answering.

Not fixing anything.

Just listening.

At fourteen—

that was enough.

I looked back at the diary.

'But God is also like my family. He is also not helping me.'

That line hurt.

Because even at fourteen—

I had already started believing silence meant abandonment.

Then came the next line.

'There is one more person another from this diary is my sister. I shares everything to her... but she can't feel that feeling.'

I read that twice.

And suddenly I understood something.

No wonder I wrote so much.

The diary wasn’t paper.

It was the only place where I felt heard.

And maybe—

that was the beginning of everything

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