The Storm We Couldn't see - by Shuliê

The Storm We Couldn't see‎Chapter 2: The Woman We Could No Longer Recognize‎‎The first time I realized something was truly wrong wasn't when my mother stopped laughing.‎It wasn't when she stopped cooking.‎‎It wasn't even when she stayed in bed for days without saying a word. ‎It was the day she looked straight into my eyes... and didn't seem to know who I was.‎‎Her eyes were open, but they were empty.‎‎She stared at me for what felt like forever before quietly asking, "Who are you?" Leave my sight, get out. ‎I laughed nervously, thinking she was joking.‎"Mummy, it's me... Amara." ‎She didn't smile.‎Instead, she turned away and pulled the blanket over her head.‎‎That moment stayed with me.‎At first, everyone blamed stress. Some said she had been working too hard. Others believed someone had offended her. A few whispered that maybe it was a spiritual attack. Everyone had an explanation.‎No one mentioned depression.‎‎Back then, I didn't even know what that word really meant.‎‎I only knew that the woman who once woke us before sunrise with songs and prayers had disappeared while still living under the same roof.‎‎Days became unpredictable.‎‎Some mornings she would wake up full of energy, cleaning every corner of the house until she was exhausted. Before evening, she would lock herself in her room and refuse to eat.‎‎Other days, she would just bathe and go out with out telling anyone where she's going.‎‎She wouldn't answer when we called.‎‎Sometimes she cried so quietly that you had to stand outside her door to hear it.‎‎Other times, she cried so loudly that the neighbors gathered outside our gate.‎‎Our home slowly became a place where everyone walked on eggshells.‎No one knew what kind of day we would wake up to.‎As the eldest daughter, I tried to be strong.‎I swept the compound before going to school. I prepared food whenever I could. I made sure my younger siblings had something to eat before leaving for work at the primary school where I taught.‎‎The children I taught laughed, played, and called me "Aunty Amara." ‎I smiled with them. ‎I marked their notebooks.‎I corrected their spelling.‎‎I even joined them when they sang nursery rhymes and I was opportuned to teach them some songs.‎‎But every afternoon, as I walked back home, fear settled in my stomach.‎‎"What will I meet today?"‎Would Mummy be sleeping?‎Would she be crying?Would she be around?While seeing me cause Alot trouble again?‎Or would she be angry?‎Sometimes I stood outside our gate for several minutes, gathering enough courage to enter.‎‎Because home no longer felt like home.‎‎One evening, I found my younger brother sitting quietly outside.‎He wasn't playing. ‎He wasn't reading. He was just staring at the ground.‎‎"Why are you sitting here?" I asked.‎He shrugged.‎‎"I don't want to go inside."‎‎His voice broke something inside me.‎Children shouldn't be afraid of their own home.‎‎That night, Mummy refused to eat again, she was angry so angry .‎‎Daddy begged her.‎‎My siblings begged her.‎‎I begged her too but my presence was triggers her anger .‎‎She simply shook her head.‎‎"I don't deserve food," she whispered.‎‎Those words haunted me.‎‎How could someone believe they didn't deserve to eat?‎‎Weeks passed.‎‎The situation became worse.‎‎Sometimes Mummy would apologize repeatedly for things she never did.‎‎"I'm sorry," she kept saying.‎‎"I'm sorry I'm a bad mother."‎‎"My children don't love anymore their running away from me"‎‎We would tell her she wasn't and we're not running.‎‎She wouldn't believe us.‎‎Other times she accused herself of ruining our lives and somethings the other way round.‎‎No matter how much we reassured her, nothing reached her.‎‎It was as if depression had built thick walls around her heart.‎‎The strongest woman I knew now needed help just to get through a single day.‎‎Still, she refused to admit she was sick.‎‎Whenever anyone suggested going to the hospital, she became upset.‎‎"I'm not mad," she would say.‎‎"I don't need doctors."‎‎People around us didn't make things easier.‎‎Some advised prayers alone.‎‎Others suggested traditional remedies.‎‎Some even told us she only needed to "be strong."‎‎If only they knew.‎‎If only they understood that depression isn't weakness.‎‎It is a battle that can silence the loudest voice, drain the strongest heart, and convince the kindest soul that life has no value.‎‎Meanwhile, I was preparing to write JAMB again.‎‎Every night I spread my books across the table.‎‎Every night I promised myself I would study.‎‎But before long, another cry from my mother's room would pull me away.‎‎Sometimes I fell asleep with unopened textbooks beside me.‎‎Sometimes I cried without making a sound because I didn't want my siblings to hear.‎‎I wasn't afraid of failing an exam anymore.‎‎I was afraid of losing my mother while she was still alive and going through all that was heavy.‎‎One evening, as rain poured heavily against our roof, I stood by the window watching the dark sky.‎‎I whispered a prayer I had never prayed before.‎‎"God... please bring my mother back."‎‎Not because she had traveled.‎‎Not because she had died.‎‎But because somewhere deep inside, I felt the mother I knew was trapped behind a pain none of us could reach.‎‎And for the first time in my life...‎‎I wondered whether love alone would be enough to save someone who had stopped believing they deserved to be saved, someone who doesn't want to be around their family.‎ ‎watchout for chapter 3‎written by Shuliê -ink 🖋️ ‎

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