Sadness In Places That None Can See 

When I was younger, I would wonder why my mum didn’t make me lunch like the mums of other kids would. And I used to wonder why my dad would be so upset when they talked. Later in life, I realised that my mum was sick. Terribly sick. There was no health challenge she hadn’t faced. 

Sometimes in school, I just keep thinking about what’s happening at home. I return to find her in bed sleeping, and my little sister playing with her phone. I pick up the stuff, serve myself something to eat, get my sister ready for tuition, then drop her off. It’s become an exhausting cycle. By the time I’m done with all that, it’s about 5:30 PM, or even later.

On good days, mum smiles, laughs and talks, which gives me hope. On bad days, she’s withdrawn, barely talks, snaps at me, pops her pills and goes to bed. She’s tried to heal her depression and her pill problems. She tried many times, over and over again but, I don’t have any hope left. I see my dad come into the house. I see his worried face, and I worry I’m not doing enough. He goes in, cleans the kitchen, makes his tea and sits down after a long day. 

I see his dejected smile. “Don’t think about it too much,” he says. But he doesn’t know I can read between the lines. I only realised how serious all this was when I was 10.

I watch my sister stare at my mother asleep and lock myself in the bathroom to cry. My sister is just a child; she doesn’t realise the weight of it all. She sees an angry, sleeping mother and cries. At school, I keep a normal face—a responsible, hardworking girl, who eats her lunch alone, in silence. I scribble my notes, thinking about my sister and my mum, about how much my father has to face, how much my mum had to face. I know she’s been through a lot, she was facing many challenges, and I feel hopeless that the cycle will continue forever.

She will start to have pills, then claim it’s a new era and change, then change—then it happens all over again. My father has hope for something that I lost many years ago. Sometimes, my sister asks small questions that make me cry. It’s not like I don’t see her confused face. My father is the one I feel most sorry for. He tries hard, so hard. He thinks that I don’t see him cry at night. He’s carrying all this burden, and I can’t lessen it for him; he can’t even share this problem. The hardest thing for both of us is to try and keep this a secret.

School is good. I smile, and help other students, and they say thanks. Sometimes I want others going through problems to hurt a little less. I know I’m not the only one with a burden to carry, so I try to be nice to everyone. I like to escape into books and poetry. Sometimes, I laugh. Then snap back to reality.  My mum is not a villain, just lost in her own storm. And that I know. At school, I just get lost in my mind—thinking about how mum is and all that. My mum is amazing—she taught me to write, and I can write poetry and essays. I can speak publicly just because of her. 

My mum is not a villain. She’s the reason I can write this. I love her a lot—I just wish she were happy. I wish my dad could rest. I wish my sister would draw things other than secluded islands and my mum sleeping. I wish everyone I helped made them feel a little less sad.

Sometimes I wonder if my father deserves a better daughter—someone who can clean properly, spread happiness and someone who could make him good tea.

So, I write this piece to every child who had to grow up too fast. To every hurt and tired person. To people who need a comforting hug. I write this piece for you.

I am a 12-year-old girl from Kashmir. I am curious and like thinking about different things. I ask a lot of questions and enjoy figuring stuff out in my own way. Reading and writing are passions I have had for a while. I am in the process of writing a book. I would love to go to Oxford one day. I can’t wait to turn these dreams into reality.