Chapter 1
Perhaps Tomorrow Will Be Different
The world has a strange habit: it pretends that every person who wakes up has a purpose waiting for them.
Every morning, the sun rises without asking whether anyone is ready for a new day. Birds sing above rooftops that have witnessed thousands of heavy nights. Shops open their doors, and people rush to work carrying coffee cups and small dreams they keep postponing until tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
Everyone repeats that word with a strange kind of confidence.
I used to believe in it once.
I used to think patience would always be rewarded, that prayers would always be answered, and that life-no matter how harsh-would eventually apologize.
But life doesn't apologize.
It only continues.
My name is Cecilia Darwin.
I am twenty-four years old, born on November 3rd, 2001, at 7:30 in the morning.
My mother used to say I arrived just after sunrise, that I brought light into her life.
Every time she repeated that sentence, she smiled the same way, as if she were telling the greatest truth she had ever known.
As for me...
I always wondered whether light can stay bright forever.
If someone asked me to describe myself, I wouldn't know what to say.
Should I talk about the child who slept with a pillow over her ears so she wouldn't hear her parents screaming?
Or the teenager who believed love alone could fix people?
Or the woman who learned-at the age when life is supposed to begin-that some dreams don't break all at once...
They simply erode in silence, day after day.
That is why I no longer like describing myself.
A person is not their name, nor their age, nor their job.
A person is everything they have lost... and everything they still cling to despite it.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the opposite wall.
Then...
The alarm rang.
I didn't jump out of bed.
In fact, I had already been awake for minutes before it rang.
I reached out and turned it off before its second ring.
A faint smile touched my lips.
I don't remember the last time an alarm actually woke me up.
My body has grown used to waking at six in the morning, even on holidays.
Perhaps because responsibilities don't know the meaning of vacation.
I stared at the white ceiling.
The paint was relatively new, but it couldn't fully hide the old cracks left by time.
I like those cracks.
They remind me that broken things can be repaired...
even if the marks of breaking remain visible.
I took a deep breath.
Morning air slipped in through the window I had forgotten to close last night.
Birds outside.
A distant truck.
A dog barking at the end of the street.
A small town slowly waking up...
just like me.
I sat on the edge of the bed and placed my feet on the wooden floor.
It was cold.
So cold that I pulled them back quickly before laughing at myself.
"I guess I'll have to buy a new rug," I muttered.
Even though I knew very well that it wasn't a priority this month.
I reached for the curtains.
Sunlight slipped inside gently, drawing golden lines across the floor.
My room was simple.
A wooden bed.
An old wardrobe whose door I had repaired myself weeks ago.
A small bedside table holding a clock, an alarm, and a glass of water I hadn't finished before sleeping.
Nothing more.
And yet...
this was the first room in years that felt like it belonged to me.
I made the bed carefully, as I did every morning.
My mother always said that making the bed is the first small victory of the day.
I laughed when I remembered her words.
I didn't know if she was right...
but I liked believing she was.
I opened the window fully.
A cold breeze rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth mixed with fresh bread from the bakery at the end of the street.
I closed my eyes again.
And breathed in deeply.
It was strange how the smell of bread could make the world feel less cruel.
When I opened my eyes again, I knew the day ahead would be long.
And I had to begin it now.
I didn't leave the room immediately.
I stood for a moment staring at the opposite wall, where a small paper calendar had been hanging for months. Every night, I crossed out the day that had ended with a blue pen, until only a few days remained.
Time had passed quickly...
Faster than I expected.
I grabbed my cotton jacket and walked down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen.
The house was still wrapped in morning silence.
A silence I loved.
As long as the house was quiet, it meant my mother was still asleep-and that the pain hadn't woken her too much during the night.
That alone was enough to start my day with a small smile.
I opened the kitchen door gently.
It wasn't large, but it was my favorite room in the house.
The sun always reached it first, reflecting off the white tiles I had spent two full days scrubbing when we moved in.
I still remember what it looked like back then.
Dust everywhere.
Worn-out cabinets.
Faded walls.
And a dripping faucet that wouldn't stop.
The contractor said fixing it would cost more than I could afford.
So I fixed it myself after watching a few videos online.
It took three hours...
four failed attempts...
and a lot of words I probably shouldn't have said.
But I succeeded in the end.
No one applauds you for fixing a faucet.
But I had clapped for myself.
And I think I deserved it.
I took the metal kettle from the cupboard.
It wasn't new.
In fact, it was probably older than me.
My mother said it was a wedding gift.
Every time I thought about that, I felt an urge to throw it away.
Not because it was bad...
but because the word "wedding" no longer felt warm.
I filled it with water and lit the stove.
As soon as the flame began to dance beneath it, the kitchen filled with a sound I knew well.
The sound of a new day beginning.
I prepared breakfast.
Simple food doesn't need to be fancy to be delicious.
It only needs...
to be eaten with someone you love.
I took a piece of bread from the paper bag. It wasn't as warm as yesterday, but still soft. I sliced it and put it into the toaster.
Then I washed two tomatoes, a cucumber, and a few lettuce leaves.
Nothing extravagant.
But breakfast doesn't need luxury to be good.
It only needs to be shared with love.
I glanced at the small window above the sink.
The lemon tree in the front garden swayed gently in the breeze.
I smiled without realizing it.
When we first moved here, I was convinced the tree was dead.
Even Lisa said it would be better to cut it down and plant a new one.
But my mother refused.
She said while gently touching its dry trunk:
"Give it one last chance."
I didn't understand her stubbornness at the time.
Then spring came.
And the first green leaf appeared.
Then another.
And the tree came back to life.
Since that day...
whenever I feel hopeless, I look at it.
Some things just need time.
A boiling sound pulled me from my thoughts.
I poured hot water over tea and mint leaves.
Steam rose immediately, filling the kitchen with its fragrance.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds.
Mint...
I think it's the only scent that can calm my heart.
While preparing the tray, I opened a small drawer next to the fridge.
Inside was a white plastic box.
Medicine.
I took it carefully and placed it on the table.
I opened it.
As always...
I arranged the pills.
One after breakfast.
One after lunch.
One before sleep.
The same routine every day.
Even if someone woke me up at midnight and asked me, I would know the schedule without hesitation.
Sometimes I wonder...
have my hands gotten used to this routine...
or has my heart gotten used to fear?
I checked the remaining doses.
Only four days left.
I opened my phone and wrote:
"Buy mother's medicine - Thursday."
I exhaled slowly.
Medicine is not cheap.
But I will manage.
As always.
I closed the phone.
And lifted the tray.
Before leaving the kitchen, I looked around one last time.
Clean.
Quiet.
Warm.
A home.
A simple word.
But for me, it meant something far greater than walls and a roof.
It meant I was no longer running.
For the first time in years...
I had somewhere to return to.
I carried the tray carefully through the hallway, avoiding the floorboards I knew would creak.
After years in this house...
I had learned its language.
I stopped in front of my mother's room.
The door was half open, as she always left it.
I knocked gently.
"Mom?"
No answer.
I smiled.
"I know you're awake."
Silence.
Then her tired voice finally came.
"And how do you know that?"
I opened the door slightly.
"Because you only answer quickly when you've already been awake for a while."
She laughed softly.
"Caught again..."
I placed the tray beside her bed and opened the curtains a little.
Sunlight slipped inside slowly.
Not too much.
She was sensitive to light since she got sick.
I looked at her.
Her face had become paler, more fragile, marked early by exhaustion and illness.
But to me...
she was still the most beautiful woman in the world.
Because when I looked at her...
I didn't just see her face.
I saw everything she sacrificed for us.
"Good morning," I said.
She smiled.
"Good morning, my little one."
She still called me that.
Even though I was twenty-four.
Even though I was the one taking care of her now.
I sat beside her.
"How do you feel today?"
She shrugged lightly.
"As long as I see you in the morning, I'm fine."
I sighed.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best answer."
I shook my head, smiling.
She always did that.
Avoided my questions in the gentlest way.
I handed her tea.
She drank slowly.
Then smiled.
"Your tea is better than mine."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Finally admitting it?"
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
"Don't get proud. Maybe my taste is just getting worse."
I laughed.
It was good to laugh.
Even for small things.
We ate breakfast in silence.
A comfortable silence.
The kind that doesn't feel empty.
She suddenly looked at me.
"Did you sleep well?"
"More or less."
"I heard you moving at night."
I froze slightly.
"You were awake?"
"Mothers don't sleep deeply."
I smiled softly.
"Even when their children grow up?"
"Especially then."
Her words sank into me.
Because they reminded me...
that I was still her daughter.
Not just someone who works and pays bills.
Not just responsibility.
But her child.
Always.
"Cecilia."
I looked up.
Her expression changed slightly.
"Don't overwork yourself today."
I smiled automatically.
The same smile I always used.
"I won't."
A lie.
We both knew it.
But we never challenged it.
Because some truths are too heavy for mornings.
She finished her medicine and pushed the box toward me.
"Is there enough left?"
I checked.
"Only a few days. I'll buy more."
She hesitated.
"Maybe I should postpone the doctor visit..."
"No."
My voice was calm but firm.
She sighed.
"You're stubborn."
"I learned from you."
That made her laugh.
For a moment...
we were just a mother and daughter again.
No illness.
No money worries.
No fear.
Just breakfast.
Just morning light.
Just life.
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