The nights held my secrets.

Long after the world had gone to sleep, I lay awake beneath the weight of my silence. The ceiling above blurred as unshed tears pooled in my eyes, my throat tightening with words that had never been heard. When the pain became unbearable, I would pull the blanket over my head, press my hands against my mouth, and let the tears fall, soundless, invisible, just like my existence.

I cried until my chest ached, until my throat burned from swallowing the sobs, until exhaustion finally wrapped its arms around me and forced me into restless sleep. And when the sun rose, I would wake up, wipe away any trace of weakness, and wear the mask of being okay.

This was my life. A cycle of being unseen, unheard, and never enough.

The first time I wanted to disappear, I was eleven.

Not run away. Not scream or throw things like the heroines in films. Just... vanish. Quietly. Like breath on a cold mirror. Something that was there one second and gone the next.

It happened after an unexpected slap because I’d dared to ask why I couldn’t go out to play like my cousins. I remember the way my mother’s eyes, cold and unflinching. But what I remember more is what she said after.

“Talk back again and I’ll throw you out.”

The door behind me had creaked slightly, and for a second, I thought she meant it. That moment planted a kind of fear in me that’s hard to explain, fear that silence would keep me safe, but not heard.

From the moment I was old enough to understand words, I had been compared to others. Every part of my existence was measured against someone else.

“Your friend just got a high-paying job. And you? Useless!”

“See how that girl respects her elders? But you? Always answering back!”

No matter what I did, I always fell short.

I was the kind of girl who got 78%, 82% in school days. I worked hard, but my achievements were met with indifference. Even when the neighbors' praise was met with dismissive waves and disapproving snorts.

“What big studies? Learn from others, they win prizes.”

It didn’t matter how hard I tried. I would never be the golden child they wanted.

My days were a never-ending cycle of work, study, and responsibility. Mornings began as the rays of sunlight touched the ground, sweeping, folding, cleaning, and still found time to study, pushing through the weight of exhaustion that had become as normal to me as breathing.

And yet, when guests arrived, my grandmother’s voice would shift sharply, dripping with disappointment.

“She doesn’t do any work at all.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth. Did they not see me? Did they not notice the pain? The aching in my legs and body.

My life was a string of contradictions.

“Be responsible.”

But when I cleaned the house, cooked, and folded clothes, it was never enough.

“You should be more social.”

But when I spoke, even gently, it was “attitude.”

I learned that being invisible was safer.

When I entered college, the burden only grew heavier.

“Why can’t you work as well as study?” they’d ask. “As if you’re the only one studying in this whole universe!”

Their words cut deeper than knives. It wasn’t just an expectation; it was an accusation.

I took a part-time job as a cashier in my second year of college. Not because I was forced to, but because I hoped, just maybe, it would make them proud. I was working from 5 PM to 10 PM after classes. The job was relentless. Hours of standing, forcing a polite smile at customers, pretending my legs weren’t trembling from exhaustion. When I reached home, my body screamed for rest.

But rest was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

I would eat quickly, then sit at my desk, fighting the weight of my eyelids as I completed assignments and notes, pushing myself to study hard.

And still, nothing changed.

My mother's disappointment lingered like a shadow that wouldn't leave.

“You don’t even do any household chores anymore. All you do is study!”

Her words shook me. After everything, I was still nothing in their eyes.

There’s a room inside me where all the unsaid things live. It’s cluttered and cold. Some nights, when I cry beneath my blanket. I imagine walking into that room and opening every box. Letting the anger out, the sadness, the hurt.

One time, I asked, “Why do you always compare me?”

I received a sharp slap across my face.

Another time, when I said, “I do everything, and yet you say I do nothing!” I was shoved toward the door.

“Get out if you want to talk back!” my mother had yelled. You think you can talk however you want?”

I had barely caught my breath when her voice was colder.

“From now on, I’m not paying a single penny for your education. Let’s see how you study now. If you want to continue, earn for yourself. Don’t come to me asking for anything!”

The words hit harder than anything

That night, my mother didn’t speak to me. Not the next day. Not the next week.

Not for an entire year.

A year of walking past each other like strangers. A year of eating meals in silence. A year of pretending I didn’t exist.

I cried myself to sleep countless nights, but no one noticed. Or maybe they did.

I wanted to scream.

But what was the point? My voice didn’t matter.

"You’re always so silent. Silent people are dangerous. They have venom in their hearts."

Venom?

A lump formed in my throat. Did they even understand why I was silent?

I wasn’t quiet because I had something to hide. I was quiet because I had no choice. Every time I tried to speak, they dismissed me. Every time I tried to express pain, they called it backtalk.

One evening, I stood in the bathroom for a long time, watching the water run over my hands. It was cold, but I barely felt it. My eyes stared at the tiles like they were answering something I didn’t dare to ask.

"What more do I have to give?"

Somewhere deep inside me, a voice whispered questions darker than the sky outside my window.

"Why should I live? Just to keep proving I’m not worthless?"

I never told anyone about those thoughts. About the nights when I wondered if disappearing would be the only way they’d notice I existed.

Some nights, I thought about ending it all.

But something inside me refused to break completely.

I chose to stay.

Not because I forgave them. Not because I believed they’d change. But because deep down, I knew. My freedom would come not from escaping, but from rising above.

So, I stayed. I studied. I left the part-time job when my final year came, even though they called me lazy. I kept writing, even though no one read my words.

After a long day of house chores and studying, I sat in my bedroom, listening to music, my only escape.

That night, when my mother once again scolded me for not doing ‘enough,’ something in me snapped.

That night, I finally said it.

"I am silent because you never let me speak!"

"Enough, Ma!" I said, my voice shaking. "I have done everything you asked. I try, I work, I study, I listen, yet it’s never enough for you. Why? Why do you always compare me?

She stared at me, stunned. Maybe she had never expected me to speak up. Maybe she thought I would always just silently endure. But that night, I let it all out.

"I am tired of being compared. I am tired of breaking myself just to fit into your idea of perfection!"

There was silence. A silence heavier than any scolding I had ever received.

For the first time, I felt heard, even if no one responded.

And then… then?

My heart pounded against my ribs as I sat up in bed, breathing heavily. The room was silent except for the slow hum of the ceiling fan.

I woke up.. It had been a dream.

I hadn’t said those words. Not really.

Now, I sit here, writing this.

And I wonder, will I ever really say those words aloud? Will I ever find the strength to speak my truth and be truly heard?

I stayed because I wanted to tell this story.

And maybe someday, when I’m far enough away from this place, from their rules, I’ll look them in the eye and say every word I rehearsed in silence.

But until then, I write.

Because this story is the only room I have where I’m not invisible.

Where can I finally ask?

If this is what it means to be a daughter… then why does it feel like I was never wanted at all?

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