Once there was a child who always waited at home, finding solace in the corners of rooms. She often lay in her bed with her legs up against the wall, feeling its uneven surface and noticing the putty sticking to her.
She would spend her days walking between rooms, reading books that were stacked in her almirah, and sitting by her window, watching random kids play outside even after hearing their mothers call them in for lunch.
She remembered eating breakfast alone (she was complimented, but her mom was busy getting ready), knowing lunch would be the same.
She frequently checked the clock, watching the needle inch toward 5 pm. Her father would come home at 4 pm but wouldn’t play with her, asking her to take a bath while he watched TV.
She longed for her mother’s kisses, hugs, and attention. She yearned to share her words, her made-up stories, and thoughts, but often stumbled over her words when her mother arrived, hoping she would understand the feelings behind her disjointed sentences.
She waited patiently. while her words carried more emotion than meaning.
Her childhood loneliness slowly became a part of her, never visible to others.
As she grew up like everyone else, and her hair began to gray, the child inside her still sought attention during times of conflict, sadness, and misery. The large, wide bed offered no comfort as her partner didn’t understand her words.
She waited, just like in the old days, near the window, hoping someone would notice her, talk to her, and understand her jumbled words—words that held different meanings in her vocabulary.
And that someone would sit with her, assuring her that everything was going to be okay..