<p>I can still hear the anguished voice of my father crying out, “Mama, where are you?” His words break through me like shattered glass. The echo of <em>“Ozoihu izu ya</em>?”— Where are you?—cuts deep, leaving wounds no one can see.</p><p><br/></p><p>I grew up in a home where love was everything, even when we had nothing. Somehow, I never felt the lack. We survived on warmth, on laughter, on the strength of my parents’ care. But now, the sound of their voices calling my name feels less like love and more like disappointment echoing against the walls of my chest.</p><p><br/></p><p>Everything changed three months ago when I turned eighteen. The world pressed in on me with demands I wasn’t ready to meet. In my desperation, I made a choice—one I didn’t think through. The weight of it suffocated me, and ever since, I have carried a silence too heavy for anyone else to bear.</p><p><br/></p><p>I replay my final moment over and over, haunted by it, unprepared for the hollow ache that followed. I see my parents’ faces, hear their shouts, but my answers never reach them. I sobbed apologies into the empty air, but my words dissolved before they could touch their ears.</p><p><br/></p><p>“Mama, stop shouting—I am here!” I cried.</p><p>“Daddy, I am right here!” I screamed.</p><p><br/></p><p>But they did not hear me.</p><p><br/></p><p>Then, for the first time in years, I saw tears well in my father’s eyes. His steps toward me were slow, heavy, almost reluctant, as if each one dragged behind it a lifetime of hurt and disbelief.</p><p><br/></p><p>In that moment, I broke again. Not because of the weight I carried, but because I saw his.</p><p><br/></p><p>No one else knows the turmoil inside me, the shadows I have walked with. I alone carry the brutal truth. I never meant for it to end this way. I never wanted my parents to feel this pain.</p><p><br/></p><p>And yet, here I am.</p><p>Crying out into silence.</p><p>Begging them to hear me.</p><p>To know that—despite </p><p>everything—</p><p><br/></p><p>I am here.</p><p><br/></p>
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