WHAT KINDNESS DIDN'T TEACH ME

WHAT KINDNESS DIDN'T TEACH ME

"Kindness is one of the important virtues", my mother always told me. "Hold onto it", she would say. "That was all one needed to learn to live comfortably in this world," I would hear her murmur in my ear while she dressed me up.

However, life has a cruel way of teaching its own rules.

These rules can either shape you or break you, but one key thing is that life keeps going, so you gotta survive it by all means.

My mother's teachings were the first rule that I ever learned.

“Treat people with kindness,” she said, as if it were something easy, like it was something meant to shield me.

Back then, I was six, sitting on the counter with my legs swinging in the air, while she wove my hair into two buns. The scent of the hair cream, made from coconut oil, wafted between us, warm, familiar, and relaxing.

She gently moved her fingers softly and leisurely, as if even my hair needed care and patience.

"Lucky star”, she would call me.

“Kindness will always find its way back to you,” she added.

I was so naive then. I believed and trusted her, the way children believe everything adults say, completely... without question or doubt.

At that time, the world seemed to make sense.

Everything about her revolved around us then, her voice... her laughter, the way she called my name as if it mattered.

That was enough for a while.

And I thought life would continue that way until suddenly, "she was gone".

Our house was overcrowded with people who didn’t know my name or how to interact with me on the very day she died.

Not even one cared to explain what silence was supposed to mean and feel like after that.

Instead, they talked around me.

“She’s too young to understand anything.”

“Don’t say it like that in front of her.”

“Where could her father be?"

All their voices passed over me like noise I couldn’t grasp.

I held the edge of my dress, standing in the middle of it all, waiting for someone to tell me why my mother was lying so motionless. Looking like someone asleep, but no one made an effort to wake her up.

Then something stirred inside me, not loud or all at once, but enough to make the world feel unfamiliar to me.

No one said, "This is where everything changes."

But it actually did.

Once the funeral ended, the house became quieter than it had been remembered to be... quiet in a way that felt completely permanent.

Nowhere close to peaceful, but empty and silent.

The type that makes you notice everything missing. Her voice, footsteps, and humming, which she always did without realizing it.

I tried my best to fill the silence the only way I knew how… holding onto her teachings.

By showing kindness.

I did just that.

Always said please. Said thank you. Helped without being asked. I even smiled when I didn't feel like it.

Thinking if I could continue to live the way she taught me to be, something would work itself out.

I had no clue then that some things don’t get solved.

They get replaced.

A few months after the burial, my stepmother arrived on a hot, sunny afternoon, carrying a suitcase with a presence that felt too suffocating and cold for the house.

I just stood in the hallway looking as she walked in, her eyes zooming in on everything like she was measuring it, including me.

“Is this your daughter?” she asked, turning to face my father.

Not what I was expecting, though. "What is her name?" or "Hello sweetie," would have been polite.

I fixed up my dress, not having a clue what exactly I was supposed to do.

“Go and greet her,” my father said.

And I obeyed.

“Good afternoon, ma”, I said softly.

She nodded.

That was all.

No smile or warmth.

Just an acknowledgement… like I was something that came along with the house.

At the beginning, nothing felt really wrong, and that was how it started.

There were no harsh words, sudden cruelty, or wickedness, just small things.

The kind that you can’t actually explain as a child, but you feel them anyway.

She called my name only when something needed tending.

And silence usually followed each time we were close.

Then I began trying harder without even knowing why.

Woke up earlier than usual, cleaned extra carefully, and spoke only when asked.

Kindness, I thought, would make life easier.

But the kindness that I understood doesn’t always mellow people.

Sometimes, it fades right in your presence.

The first actual lesson came from something very little.

It was just a plate I had washed, dried, and put back where it should be.

I remember double-checking it, maybe three times, because I wanted to make sure I washed it right.

But later, she called me back.

"Is this washed?” she asked, raising it to my face.

“Yes, it is,” I answered.

She traced her finger along the edge, then presented it to me, nothing I could really see, but something she had already concluded was wrong.

“So this is actually clean to you, eh?”

I felt a strong heaviness in my chest.

“I... I thought…”

“You thought what?”

She interrupted.

“If you think this is enough, then do it again.”

She dropped it and stormed out of the kitchen.

I collected the plate back and stood rooted, staring at it, with many things running through my mind.

My hands suddenly felt shaky.

It wasn’t just about the plate.

At the age of six, all I knew was this;

Trying your best doesn’t always mean it was enough.

After that, I paid close attention to everything, including instructions, tone, and silence.

Because even silence had become its own kind of interaction.

There was no explanation, reassurance, or moments where I got compliments like:

"Great job, you did well."

Just the absence of my father and detachment from my stepmom.

Gradually, I began to realize something I couldn't properly explain for a time...

Not everyone recognizes you, even when you’re standing right in front of them.

But I didn’t give up being kind.

I just started becoming careful with it-my words, my actions, and how much of my time I gave to people.

Because somewhere along the line, kindness stopped feeling safe.

Rather, it began to feel as though it could be ignored.

Or worse… expected.

Years passed, but the lessons remained.

I carried them into friendships, conversations, and the silent moments where I found myself giving more than I got in return.

And for a while, I thought that was normal.

That to give love meant effort without balance.

Being good also meant being chosen.

Until I learnt the hardest rule of them all.

But that lesson didn’t come from my stepmother.

It came from life itself.

From those who left without explanation.

Moments that didn’t make sense.

Questions that I never got answers to.

And finally, from a realization I couldn’t escape from.

You cannot make someone choose you.

No matter how kind you are, how much you give, or how much you hope for.

Some people will still leave because they want to.

Many overlook you, while others might not see your worth.

And that has nothing to do with you.

These truths didn’t come easily.

They came with disappointment, nights spent replaying conversations, and the silent pain of understanding something you wish you didn’t have to understand.

But they also came with something else;

"Clarity."

I think about my mother differently now.

Not as someone wrong, but as the person who taught me the beginning of something life had to finish.

For a long time, I believed kindness was enough.

That if I gave it freely, it would definitely come back to me in the same form.

The truth is that... it didn’t.

But I understand now that it was never meant to be a guarantee.

Never was it meant to protect me from everything.

It was meant to be mine-something I carry, not something I lose.

These days, I still choose to be kind.

Just not in the same way as before.

I pay attention now.

To what is given, what is returned, or quietly taken.

And for the first time, I don’t give all of myself away in the hope of being noticed.

I give it where I am seen, where I am met, or not made to feel like I have to earn a place I already deserve.

My mother taught me how to be kind.

But life taught me where it belongs.