"Some days, the mirror shows too much."
It came back today.
The memory.
I don't know what triggered it.
Maybe it was the smell of something burning from the kitchen.
Or the slam of a chair against the marble outside.
But suddenly, I wasn't 19 anymore.
I was 9.
And the chair wasn't outside.
It was flying across the room.
At me.
He was sick that day. My father.
Coughing, sweating, angry.
I think something inside him had snapped.
Maybe he was hurting.
Maybe he just didn't care anymore.
But all I remember was him shouting—
"Why are you standing there like a useless dog?!"
Then came the crash.
The chair hit the table.
I flinched. But I didn't cry.
Not even when the boiling pot of tea spilled on my hand.
I remember watching the red flesh bubble.
I remember the sting.
But mostly… I remember the silence that followed.
Nobody said anything.
Nobody rushed to help.
No one asked me if it hurt.
Later, mom muttered:
"Stop making it dramatic. Boys get hurt."
Like pain was a competition.
Like I was supposed to be proud of the wound.
I still have a faint scar.
Right hand. Near the thumb.
Sometimes I touch it just to check if it's real.
And to remind myself—
No one came for me then.
So I stopped expecting it now.
I've been wondering lately…
Was any of it my fault?
Was I born into their misery?
Or did I cause it?
A child shouldn't have to wonder these things.
But I do.
Because they taught me early:
Love is optional. Blame is default.
Maybe they were just broken people trying to live.
Or maybe they saw something in me they hated in themselves.
I don't know.
And I'm tired of guessing.
Now, I just observe.
Like a ghost inside my own house.
They talk. They blame.
I listen. I build.
Not with bricks. But with thoughts.
With quiet resolve.
With reminders like:
"You've survived worse than this."
I'm not writing this to ask for pity.
I'm writing it because I want someone—even if it's only future me—to know:
I didn't imagine the pain.
I just got better at hiding it.
Funny, right?
The only time I feel truly seen
is when I look in the mirror and remember
that 9-year-old boy standing in a kitchen full of steam and silence.
He didn't cry then.
And I won't cry now.
– M