Stolen Happiness
As I lay in bed, the fragments of a dream pulled me back to a hazy vision that felt more like a lost echo than anything real. It left me questioning why these memories kept surfacing more frequently. I am wandering through a sun-dappled forest in that dream, my small hand held by a tall woman whose presence is as comforting as the warm earth beneath my feet.
She had skin like dark, fertile soil and eyes that sparkled with the fresh green of spring leaves, guiding me along a winding path where flowers bloomed unexpectedly at our steps, their petals brushing against my legs as a gentle breeze carried the scent of rain. I was just a toddler in this dream, feeling safe in her silent company, her voice a soft murmur that I can’t ever make out, like the faint rustle of wind through branches. We reach a vast meadow, and she kneels, placing my hand on the ground; wildflowers twisted up around my fingers, as if the earth itself was reaching out in a way that seemed almost playful, though I didn’t understand it then or now.
I jolted awake in my cramped bedroom at the Brown home, my heart racing as the sheets twisted around me like unwelcome chains, reminding me that I was no longer that little girl but a 25-year-old woman stuck in this unchanging routine.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the wooden floor creaking under my weight as I rubbed my eyes and watched the faint dawn light slip through the curtains. It was just a week before our family trip to Italy, a grand vacation they planned just to celebrate Chrissy’s 21st birthday.
I was counting down the days. But I knew today would kick off with the same old drudgery. I would start the day by making breakfast because serving them was my only purpose. In the kitchen, with its faded yellow walls and the stale smell of last night’s meal hanging in the air.
I cracked eggs into the skillet I used for bacon, sliced bread for toast, and brewed coffee, moving through the motions with an efficiency born from repetition and resentment. I’d taught myself to cook out of necessity and, eventually, through online videos during the rare moments I could sneak time on the computer. While Crissy got to go off to college and live her life freely, I was left to teach myself everything.
The family wandered in one by one, and my dad, Quincy, spoke with a gruff voice that broke the morning silence as he poked at the eggs, his words laced with that drawling accent that always made me feel small.
“This ain’t fit for hogs, girl, it’s a wonder you ain’t learned how to cook better after all this time,” he muttered, pushing the plate away like it was an insult.
My mom, Brandi chimed in with her sharp tone, eyeing the toast with a sneer. “You burn everything you touch, Avani. When you gonna stop being useless?”
Her words cutting deep as she probably intended. He stood up and flicked my ear as he walked by to leave. I flinched as my hand instinctively went up to soothe the sting, feeling the scars on them that always seem to ache.
Crissy, already dressed and made up with her dark skin glowing under layers of bright makeup, grabbed a slice of toast and headed for the door without so much as a glance my way.
“Bye, freak,” she tossed over her shoulder, the insult landing hard, just another sting I’d grown accustomed to over the years.
I stood there for a moment, plate still in hand, the kitchen’s stifling heat wrapping around me like a heavy blanket as the front door slammed shut. Leaving me in the echoing quiet. Despite feeling like a prison, our home is beautiful, a white Colonial farmhouse with its wraparound porch and trimmed hedges, which had always loomed large on its gravel road surrounded by trees.
But to me, it was just another cage. Its rules keep me trapped without any real explanation.
I cleaned up quickly, the routine dulling the edge of my frustration, and stepped out to the back porch, where the world finally opened up a bit. My garden stretched out there, full of vibrant tomatoes, herbs, and flowers that thrived under my care, their colors popping against the dry, cracked creek bed nearby that Quincy had altered years ago, cutting off its flow for reasons he never shared.
I sank into the old wicker chair, letting the morning sun warm my deep golden skin. I stared into the trees, watching one of the many talismans dangling from the trees be tossed by the wind. I remembered wandering through those trees, touching one of them, and my parents beating me for it. I never went near them again.
I looked away back to my cherished garden, and my thoughts drifted to Mario, the landscaper’s son who had worked here when I was 17. His thick Puerto Rican accent had been like music in my lonely days, his strong hands showing me how to plant the first seeds. My first and probably only love, who was my first everything. We’d shared stolen kisses hidden among the leaves, and eventually, before his family’s contract was up, he was my first and only lover.
We both knew we had an expiration date, so we made the most of it. Full of moments that still sparked a warmth in my chest. Those memories brought a bittersweet smile to my lips, easing the isolation that constantly gnawed at me. I wasn’t allowed off the property much.
Dad’s strict rules are made to steal any happiness I might want to pursue. But the garden was my escape, a place where the plants seemed to flourish under my attention. It was the one thing I was truly good at. And the one thing they let me have was because it benefited them. Even with their endless complaints, I am the only one who cooks, and they always eat it all. So my garden is mine as long as it’s useful. As long as I’m useful.
Despite their success in isolating me, I’m never truly alone. The squirrels and birds draw close to me without any fear, as if they sense I need the company, even now. I moved to tend to a few pesky weeds and connected myself to the earth, solid and reassuring beneath me.
Tears pricked at my eyes as I sat there and watched a little cotton-tailed rabbit hop close to me, letting me feed it a small mint leaf. After I was done, I shook off the dread and pulled out my restricted phone, logging into my chat with Abigail. She was my only real friend, someone I’d met on online forums who always got what I was going through. Her messages flooded in with that dramatic style of hers, full of wild stories and empathy.
“Oh, Avani, you’re trapped in that old house while the world keeps spinning.” I rolled my eyes, secretly appreciating her words.
“It’ll keep spinning whether I live or die.”
“Now who’s the dramatic one?”
“Hush! But seriously, I had that weird dream again last night…”
“Ooo! Spill every detail about that dream that’s got you so rattled. Was it a sexy dream?”
I typed back hesitantly at first, describing the dream and rambling about my family’s harsh words, finding a bit of relief in our back-and-forth as we bantered about ways to break free from it all. She had a way of making me feel seen. She knew everything about me, even the oddities of my connection to nature, and she never made me feel strange.
As the sun rose higher, I ended the conversation with a promise to talk soon and turned my gaze back to the garden, its greens and blooms reminding me that despite the meanness and the walls around me, there was still a part of me that felt alive and untethered, waiting for something more.
