“When I was nine…”

I catch myself in time.

I was almost going to utter these words to my own 9-year-old daughter, as she sat there, glued to my phone.

I was not going to compare the life I had to the one that my daughter, our family, is blessed with right now.

At times, I do get annoyed, coming home to a messy house after a long day at work. But at least it was a safe house, unlike the environment I grew up in.

I was nine, when my dad was sent off to prison.

Mom mustered all her courage and brought up my brother and I, while working a 12-hour shift.

Some of our relatives came to stay with, under the pretense of ‘helping us out’.

My days went a little like this: hot breakfast on the table, mom dropping us to the bus-stop, a few hours of school, and then my own version of hell.

I had to wash the clothes, clean the dishes and the garden, all under the raging afternoon sun.

If I was lucky, it would rain, and I was allowed to take an afternoon nap.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, my elder cousin began touching me, everywhere.

I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone; and he took my silence as consent.

I wanted to tell my mom about him, but I thought she had enough worries on her mind. I shouldn’t be another.

As time passed me by, I decided it was safer to stay locked in my room. Ignoring even my brother, who needed me at that time.

But thankfully, happiness wasn’t far for us.

One day, when I came back from school, I saw my dad waiting to greet us at the door.

I could finally hug him, there wasn’t a transparent wall between us anymore.

The relatives living with us got into a huge argument with my parents and that night, they moved out.

We were no longer their slaves.

So that’s why, when my daughters do something to annoy me and this line reaches my lips, I bite my tongue, because I don’t want them to ever experience what I did, when I was nine.

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