We walked back in silence, soaked to the skin, our dignity dripping from us like the water from our clothes.
That day, something shifted in me.
I had knocked on the last door I thought would open—and it slammed in my face.
There was no one left to turn to, no distant relative, no family friend. Just me and two innocent faces who looked at me like I was their whole world.
We went back home to the small shelter we had found after leaving our old house which was barely better than the street. It was a single wooden room shared with another displaced woman and her daughter. There were no beds—just mats on the floor and a thin curtain hung for privacy. But it was shelter, and it kept us dry.
That evening, as we sat in the dark, my sister "Camila" suddenly whispered, "What about Mr. Philip? He was kind... maybe he can help us."
Hope flickered for a moment.
I remembered how he held Mom's hand at the hospital. How he looked at us with eyes full of sorrow. He had always cared.
The next morning, I asked around for him—went back to the old neighborhood, asked shopkeepers, old neighbors, anyone who might know.
But the answer was the same everywhere:
"Mr. Philip? He left. Traveled back overseas weeks ago. No one's heard from him since."
No phone number. No address. Just gone—like everyone else.
Another door closed. Another name scratched off the list of hope.
I didn't cry this time. I was learning not to.
After the search for Mr. Philip led to nothing, I stopped expecting miracles.
We were forgotten. Just names in someone else's past. Our pain, our hunger, our struggle—they echoed in the world like whispers no one wanted to hear.
Life became a cycle: wake up, work, survive.
Some days were better than others. Some days we ate rice. Other days, we shared a loaf of bread and called it dinner.
I started taking any job I could find. I sold water on the roadside, helped traders in the market, and even washed clothes for strangers. My palms were always sore, my feet never stopped aching, but had no other choice.
My sister stopped asking when she could go back to school. She knew the answer before it came. My little brother cried often at night. He was too young to understand hunger. I held him until he slept, then stared at the ceiling, wondering if I'd ever be free of this weight pressing down on my chest.
Some nights, I talked to Mom in my head.
How did you do it, Mama? How did you smile through this kind of pain?
But no answer ever came.
One day, after hours of standing in the sun, I fainted while selling bottled water. When I woke up in a small clinic, the nurse scolded me for exhaustion and dehydration. I only nodded. What could I say? That resting felt like a luxury?
The world didn't care about girls like me. It never did.
But I wasn't going to break.
I was tired, starving, and angry—but I was still standing. And as long as I was breathing, I would fight. For my siblings. For myself. For my parents' memory.
One day, while walking home from the market, my sister tugged at my hand. "Do you think we'll be okay one day?" she asked softly.
I didn't know what to say.
I wanted to say yes, but the truth was... I didn't know.
Instead, I smiled, squeezed her hand, and said, "We have each other. That's something."
But deep down, I was tired.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of smiling.
Tired of being strong when all I wanted to do was cry.
That night, I knelt by our mat and whispered to the darkness, "God, if You see us… just show me a way. Any way."
The silence that followed was heavy.
But for the first time, I didn't feel alone in it.
Maybe, just maybe, someone was listening.