In a quiet apartment meant for non-teaching staff on a university campus, the night air was split by the cry of a woman in labor. Her screams echoed through the narrow hallway — long, desperate, and filled with both pain and hope.
After seven hours, the sound changed.
"Waa! Waa!"
A baby's cry.
The midwife smiled, wiping sweat from her brow.
"It's a girl," she announced to the man waiting nervously outside the door.
That was the day I came into this world.
I was named Alexandra, but everyone at home called me Mama. I grew up in a family of seven — five children, plus my parents. I was the second girl and the fourth child. When I was three, my mother gave birth to my little brother, completing our noisy, chaotic family.
By the time I turned ten, childhood had already begun to slip away. Every night, I slept around 11 p.m., only to wake again by 3 a.m. to help my mother make fufu for sale. Before sunrise, my siblings and I would carry heavy bowls on our heads, supplying customers before rushing off to school.
It didn't take long for exhaustion to catch up with me. I was always late. Always punished. Eventually, I had to repeat Primary Six because I didn't meet the promotion requirements.
The day I found out, my brother Jonathan — everyone called him Big Joe — came home singing a mocking song that the neighborhood kids used for those who failed:
"Mama no place! No place!"
I tried to laugh it off, but tears streamed down my face before I knew it.
By fifteen, I began to understand why my mother worked so hard, despite my father's decent salary. Father wasn't poor — he simply believed his siblings came before us.
I remember the day it became clear.
Mother asked for money to buy food and a few household items, but Father waved her off, claiming he had nothing. Their argument filled the whole house. Not long after, his pregnant sister arrived. Father quietly went to his room, reached into a sack, and left the house. When he returned, he was carrying foodstuffs — enough to feed her for days.
The next morning, his sister went into labor. Father, who supposedly had no money, paid her hospital bill without hesitation. In fact, he paid for all her childbirths.
That was the moment I truly understood.
Life had always been unfair to us — especially to Mother. Maybe that's why I've always carried a bit of her pain inside me.
---
"Honk! Honk!"
The blaring of a bus horn jolted me back to the present. I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at nothing for several minutes.
Outside the window, the bustling city of Alagna unfolded — tall buildings, flashing lights, people rushing in every direction. I clutched my small bag tighter and sighed.
This was my new beginning.
I'd come to Alagna to help my sister, Clara, with her small business — and, hopefully, to learn something that might change my life.
As the bus rolled deeper into the city, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was crossing into something far bigger than I understood — a turning point I hadn't yet seen coming.