After Mom's death, the world grew colder. Colder than it had ever been.
We were alone now—truly alone. No more soft arms to hold us when we cried, no warm voice to whisper, "It's going to be okay." I became a mother, father, sister, and a protector overnight. I was only eighteen, but I had no choice. Life had forced me to grow up too fast.
The night before we left the old house,it rained.
Not the gentle kind, but the loud, heavy kind that sounded like the sky itself was mourning. The roof leaked in four places. We placed bowls and buckets underneath to catch the falling water, the same way we'd done every time it stormed. The wind howled through the broken window, whistling like a ghost through the silence.
Mom had passed just a week before.
The house felt emptier than ever—her sewing machine untouched in the corner, a bowl of her last soup still sitting on the stove, long gone cold. Her scent still lingered in the sheets, in the air, in everything.
I packed our few belongings into one old suitcase—the one Dad used the day he left for abroad. My sister folded our clothes slowly, pausing every few minutes to cry in silence. My baby brother slept on a thin mat, unaware of how deeply our world had shifted.
There was no money to pay the rent. The landlord had already warned us. "You must leave by tomorrow morning," he had said, not unkindly, but firmly.
That night, I sat on the floor, staring at the cracked walls that had held every laugh, every tear, every whispered prayer since Dad's departure. It was where we learned to survive after he died. Where Mom fought every day to keep us safe.
We didn't have much. But this house, small and broken as it was, held memories we couldn't carry with us.
At dawn, I stood at the doorway, looked back one last time, and whispered, "Thank you."
Then I closed the door, took my siblings by the hand, and stepped into the unknown.
We didn't know where we were going.
But we knew we couldn't stay.
While walking on a fearful road with my siblings at night a kind neighbor who had found out about our loss saw us and offered we stay for a few days But I knew it couldn't last. We needed something permanent—a roof, a plan, a future. And though every part of me hated it, I knew what I had to do.
had to go to him.
Uncle Raymond.
He was still living in our father's house—the house Dad built with his sweat, dreams, and sacrifices. The house we were meant to grow up in. The house we were thrown out of like strangers. I hadn't seen him since the funeral, where he showed no grief—just a cold face, hiding behind dark sunglasses.
I dressed my siblings in their neatest clothes, even though they were torn and faded. I wrapped my youngest brother on my back, held my sister's hand, and walked for miles under the burning sun to Uncle Raymond's estate.
His gate stood tall and proud, painted a glossy black, as if guarding gold behind it. I hesitated, my heart pounding. But I had to try. For them.
I knocked.
A security man opened the gate, confused at first, until he saw my face.
"I need to speak to Uncle Raymond," I said. "Please. Just a minute."
He went in.
Minutes later, Uncle Raymond appeared on the balcony. He looked well-fed, well-dressed, untouched by the storm that had drowned us. His eyes landed on us—me, my sister, and the child clinging to my back.
"What do you want?" he barked.
I swallowed my pride.
"Please," I said, "we have nothing. We're not asking for everything—just help. A place to stay. We're your family. Your brother's children."
He scoffed.
"My brother made his choices. He left this world and his problems behind. Don't come here begging."
"We're not begging," I whispered, holding back tears. "We're surviving."
Without warning, he turned to a servant nearby. "Get them out of here," he said coldly.
Then, as we turned to leave, ashamed and broken, water splashed from the balcony—cold and sudden—soaking our clothes and bags.
Uncle Raymond stood above us, a bitter smirk on his lips.
"Maybe that'll cool you off," he muttered, before walking back inside.
My sister gasped, shivering, her small hand clutching mine tighter than ever. I stood frozen, the water dripping down my face mixing with tears I didn't try to hide.
We walked away in silence. Not because we had nothing to say.
But because we had been reminded—once again—that the world doesn't care how much you've lost. It just keeps taking.
But even in that moment, soaked and shamed, I made a vow:
We may have nothing now,
But one day, they'll know our name.
One day, the girl they threw water on will rise.