As much as I didn't want to go back home, I wasn't left with much choice.
I tried to delay it.
For as long as I could.
But there was a limit to that.
And eventually…
I had to go back.
Reluctantly, I made the trip.
The closer I got, the heavier everything felt.
The air.
My thoughts.
Even my body.
It didn't feel like I was going somewhere familiar.
It felt like I was returning to something I had been avoiding.
Seeing her grave right in front of the house made it worse.
It wasn't something I could ignore.
Or walk past without noticing.
It was there.
Right in front of me.
A constant reminder.
She was gone.
Not far away.
Not somewhere else.
Gone.
I stood there for a moment.
Not too long.
Just enough to acknowledge it.
Then I went inside.
I saw my dad.
We exchanged greetings like normal.
Like nothing had changed.
Like everything was still the same.
But it wasn't.
Then he introduced me to his wife.
Wife?
For a second, I thought I heard wrong.
But I didn't.
It's barely been a year since my mom died.
And there's already someone else?
I felt something rise in me.
Anger.
Confusion.
Something I couldn't fully explain.
But just as quickly as it came…
It settled.
Because I understood.
Or at least, I tried to.
He needed someone.
He couldn't stay alone in that house forever.
Everyone had already left.
My two older sisters were married, with children of their own.
They had their lives.
They couldn't just leave everything behind to stay with him.
My eldest brother had gone abroad.
My other brother had moved out to be independent.
And me?
I was in the university.
Barely home.
So yes…
I understood.
And I tried to be okay with it.
I really did.
But understanding something doesn't mean accepting it.
And accepting it doesn't mean liking it.
Because somehow…
I just couldn't get along with her.
My stepmother.
Even thinking the word felt strange.
She got on my nerves.
In ways I couldn't fully explain.
At first, I tried to ignore it.
Tried to adjust.
Tried to act like everything was fine.
But it wasn't.
The house felt different.
Not just because she was there.
But because everything had changed.
The arrangement.
The little details.
The things that used to feel familiar.
Gone.
Replaced.
I know she's in charge now.
I know it's her responsibility.
But still…
Did changing everything erase what was there before?
Did it erase my mom?
Because that's what it felt like.
Like she was trying to remove every trace of her.
Every memory.
Every presence.
And that didn't sit well with me.
Not at all.
But my dad didn't complain.
So I didn't either.
It was his house.
Not mine.
I didn't have a say.
So I stayed quiet.
And observed.
And kept everything to myself.
Then there was another issue.
Me.
She didn't like the way I lived.
She didn't like that I stayed indoors.
That I kept to myself.
That I didn't try to "bond" with her.
She wanted company.
And somehow, that became my responsibility.
At first, I tried.
I really did.
I sat with her.
Talked when necessary.
Listened.
Responded.
Did everything I thought I was supposed to do.
Because saying no felt wrong.
Like I was rejecting her.
Like I didn't accept her place in my dad's life.
Which…
If I'm being honest…
I didn't.
But I couldn't say that.
So I kept pretending.
I didn't want to be seen as the problem child.
So I agreed.
To everything.
But it didn't last long.
My social battery was already low.
And trying to meet her expectations drained whatever I had left.
I became tired.
Easily irritated.
Restless.
And I started withdrawing again.
Back to my room.
Back to silence.
Back to myself.
I guess she noticed.
Because she reported me to my dad.
And his response…
Made me happy.
He told her I valued my privacy.
That she shouldn't take it personally if I stayed in my room.
For once…
I felt understood.
But she didn't take it well.
Not at all.
Instead, she started telling others.
Anyone who would listen.
Anyone she thought would agree with her.
But they didn't.
And every time she was disappointed…
I felt something.
Something I wasn't proud of.
Satisfaction.
And that feeling made everything worse.
It made me dislike her more.
It made me dislike the house more.
It made everything feel…
Wrong.
Home didn't feel like home anymore.
It felt like a place I was stuck in.
A place I didn't belong.
A place that was slowly changing into something unfamiliar.
I started counting down the days.
Waiting for resumption.
Looking for any excuse to leave.
Because being there felt suffocating.
At some point, I found myself thinking…
Would things have been different if my mom was still alive?
Would the house still feel like home?
Would I feel different?
Would everything still make sense?
But there's no answer to that.
There never will be.
She's gone.
Forever.
And all that's left…
Are memories.
Fading ones.
Uncertain ones.
And even those don't feel like enough sometimes.
Home doesn't feel like home anymore.
It feels quiet.
But not peaceful.
It feels full.
But not complete.
It feels like something is missing.
And nothing can replace it.
It feels suffocating.
Like a place I need to escape from.
Like a cage.