Family
I don’t remember everything about my childhood.
Maybe that’s because some memories fade with time, while others stay so quietly inside you that you forget they’re there—until something brings them back.
When I think about the little girl I used to be, I don’t see the person I am today.
I see a child who didn’t know that childhood was supposed to feel safe.
She laughed easily. She trusted easily. She believed what adults told her. She didn’t know that some homes could look normal from the outside and still hold stories no one would ever imagine.
Back then, I didn’t have the words for what I felt.
I only knew that some things were strange.
Some things were frightening.
And some things were never spoken about.
But I was a child.
Children don’t always understand what is happening around them. They simply learn to live with it.
And that is how my story began.
I grew up in a joint family, in a house that was almost never quiet.
There were always people around—voices coming from different rooms, footsteps in the hallway, conversations overlapping each other, and someone always calling for someone else.
To an outsider, it probably looked like a warm, lively family.
And maybe, in some ways, it was.
But a house can be full of people and still feel lonely.
I was surrounded by relatives, yet there were many things I learned to keep to myself. Everyone had their own place, their own opinions, their own version of what a family should be.
And somewhere among all those voices was me—a child trying to understand the world around her.
At that age, I didn’t know that the house I called home would become the place where some of my happiest memories and some of my hardest memories would live together.
My family is full of stupid people, each one think like they are unique and smart but reality is opposite.
Lets first talk about my Father.
He is Educated, but painfully foolish.
He knows his family is using him still he wants to be with them, I know he never gonna take stand for his children and his wife.
I can just hope one day he will going to realise his mistake.
My father was not the kind of man who stood beside his family when it mattered.
He cared deeply about what people would say. Society’s opinion seemed to matter more to him than the feelings of the people living under his own roof.
When his children needed him, he often remained silent. When my mother needed someone to stand beside her, he rarely did.
He wasn’t always cruel. Sometimes he could be ordinary, even caring in his own way. But there was another side of him that we learned to live around—the anger, the harshness, and the feeling that keeping the family respectable in front of others mattered more than protecting the people inside it.
As a child, I couldn’t understand why a father would worry so much about the opinions of strangers while ignoring the fear and pain of his own family.
I only knew that I wished, more than once, that he would choose us.
He didn’t.
Then there were my uncle , aunt and other my family member .
They were family. At least, that’s what I believed when I was young.
I used to think family meant that, no matter what happened, you would protect one another. I thought the people who sat at the same table, visited the same house, laughed with you, and called you their own would never be the people you needed protection from.
I was wrong.
They could be sweet to our faces—sometimes so sweet that you would believe they genuinely loved us. They would smile at my mother, talk to my father, ask about us, and behave as though our family meant the world to them.
But when we weren’t around, their words were different.
They talked about my parents. They talked about my siblings. They talked about me. There were insults, gossip, and things said behind our backs that I wish I had never known.
What hurt wasn’t only what they said.
It was the pretending.
The same people who could sit in front of us and act as though they loved us more than anyone else could turn around and speak about us with such bitterness.
As a child, I couldn’t understand it.
I kept wondering how someone could hug you with one hand and hurt your family with the other.
Maybe that’s one of the hardest things about growing up in a complicated family—you slowly learn that sharing blood doesn’t always mean sharing love.
And I learned another painful truth:
Sometimes, the people who know your family best also know exactly where to hurt it.
