I remember

I remember the rain that morning, tapping softly against the window as if it was trying to comfort the world. The house was still, yet everything inside me trembled. The air felt heavy with things that had been said, things that had been done and things that never should have been. Even the light that slipped through the curtains seemed afraid to touch the floor, hesitant to disturb the fragile silence that had settled overnight.

I remember how I used to measure peace in footsteps, counting the seconds between each one and learning to read moods by the sound of a door closing. I remember how far away those footsteps felt on the good days, and how close they came on the bad. The walls seemed to hold their breath with me, waiting, listening, praying for calmness.

I remember the fear that learned my name. It lived in my chest, patient and familiar, a constant whisper reminding me to stay small, to stay quiet. I remember the silence that followed the kind that settled on my shoulders like a weight I could never set down. It became a part of me, that silence, shaping the way I moved, the way I spoke, the way I existed.

I remember looking in the mirror one morning and not recognising the girl staring back. Her eyes were empty, her smile long gone, her reflection hollowed out by years of pretending. I remember touching the glass, wondering if the version of me on the other side might know what it meant to be loved without fear.

I remember thinking that maybe I did not deserve love, that maybe the hurt was my fault. I remember how wrong that felt, and how long it took to believe it was not true. Some nights I still hear the echo of that doubt, faint but familiar, though now I know better. Now I know it was never my fault.

I remember the day he left. The shouting stopped. The door slammed. The sound was sharp, final, and then the house swallowed it whole, as if it had been waiting for that silence forever. For a long time I did not move. The world outside kept spinning, but inside, everything stood still. Then, little by little, I realised the stillness was not fear anymore. It was freedom. Quiet, fragile, and unfamiliar but freedom all the same.

I remember my mother’s tears that evening, the way she cried like someone had finally loosened the ropes around her heart. She wept for the years lost, for the bruises we could not see, for the version of herself she had been forced to bury. We did not speak at first. We did not need to. The air between us felt different, lighter, like it could finally reach our lungs again. I remember the two of us sitting there, surrounded by the echo of what used to be, and understanding that somehow, against everything, we had survived.

I remember how slowly life began to return. It came back in fragments soft laughter, open windows, gentle mornings. The house no longer winced at every sound. The walls felt warmer, almost forgiving. I remember laughter appearing like a shy guest, uncertain it was welcome. But we let it in. Once it entered, it refused to leave.

I remember my mother humming in the kitchen, her voice quiet but steady. I remember the smell of dinner filling the air, the sound of dishes clinking without fear behind them. I remember how strange it felt to eat in peace, to taste food without the bitterness of worry sitting at the table with us. I remember opening the windows just to feel the wind and thinking, this is what safety sounds like. This is what home feels like.

I remember standing in front of that same mirror months later. The girl looking back at me was not the same one I had seen before. There were scars behind her eyes, yes, but also something brighter, something alive. There was softness without weakness, strength without hardness. I smiled, not because everything was fixed, but because I was still here breathing, healing, learning how to be whole.

I remember the nights when memories tried to pull me under, and how I learned to breathe through them. I remember whispering to myself, you are safe now, again and again, until the words finally felt true. Healing was not a straight line. Some days I walked forward; other days I crawled. But I kept moving. I remember realising that healing is not forgetting. It is remembering without breaking. It is seeing the past clearly and choosing peace anyway.

I remember the fear. I remember the pain. I remember the years that felt like a storm that would never end. But I also remember the quiet after, the gentle sunlight returning, the laughter filling the halls, the peace that once felt impossible. I remember how love found its way back to us, not loud or sudden, but soft and patient, the kind of love that stays.

I remember the first time the rain came again. I stood by the window, watching the droplets slide down the glass, and for the first time, it did not sound like mourning. It sounded like cleansing. The same rain that once mirrored my sadness now whispered of renewal. I let it fall, and I let it wash away what was left of the ache. I remember smiling through the tears and thinking how strange it was that the same sound could hold both sorrow and healing.

I remember everything. Every shadow, every tremor, every whisper of the past that shaped the person I became. Because I remember, I honour every version of myself that kept going when it would have been easier to stop. I remember the strength it took to stay, the courage it took to leave, and the grace it took to heal. I remember the beauty that came after the chaos, the way light found its way through the cracks, the way love returned to fill the spaces fear once owned.

I remember, and I am free. I remember, and I am finally home.