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103
The Child Who Stayed for Mondays
<p>They thought I loved school.</p><p>They thought I loved work</p><p><br/></p><p>They never knew
</p><p>I loved the silence
</p><p>that arrived
</p><p>after I was in my own space,
</p><p>where no voice
</p><p>could sharpen itself
</p><p>against my name.</p><p><br/></p><p>Friday was never freedom.</p><p>It was a return ticket
</p><p>to a house
</p><p>where footsteps translated </p><p>themselves
into warnings,
</p><p>where an unwashed dish
could </p><p>become a courtroom,
</p><p>and I,
without trial,
</p><p>was always guilty.</p><p><br/></p><p>I learned
that peace
</p><p>could be measured</p><p>
by the distance</p><p>
between my room </p><p>
and the voice of the man </p><p>that stayed with me.</p><p><br/></p><p>People ask</p><p>
how children and partners </p><p>stop loving.</p><p>They don't.</p><p><br/></p><p>Love is not a switch.
</p><p>It is a candle
</p><p>left in the rain.</p><p>It burns,
</p><p>then flickers,
</p><p>then spends years</p><p>
trying to remember</p><p>
what warmth felt like.</p><p><br/></p><p>So I became polite.</p><p>I served.
</p><p>Obeyed.
</p><p>Lowered my voice.
</p><p>Counted my words.
</p><p>
for storms</p><p>
I did not summon.</p><p><br/></p><p>Not because I was weak,
</p><p>but because survival
</p><p>sometimes dresses itself</p><p>
as obedience.</p><p><br/></p><p>I realised grief</p><p>
cannot grow
</p><p>where fear
</p><p>has taken root
</p><p>for years.<br/></p><p><br/></p><p>I would pray.</p><p>Not because</p><p>
I was untouched,
</p><p>but because
</p><p>mercy asks nothing
</p><p>of memory.</p><p><br/></p><p>And one day,
</p><p>when someone asks me
</p><p>where I learned
</p><p>what home means,</p><p>I will tell them</p><p>I learned it
</p><p>from the place
</p><p>that never felt</p><p>
like one.</p><p>At least if peace was concerned </p><p><br/></p><p>I learned it
</p><p>from every weekend</p><p>
I wished
would end.</p><p><br/></p><p>I learned it
</p><p>from every Monday morning
</p><p>that felt
like rescue.</p><p><br/></p>
14
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