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I don't remember exactly when I began living with my grandmother.
I only know that in my earliest memories, my mother was rarely there. The one who appeared every single day was my grandmother—a thin woman with a slightly hunched back, a soft voice that was never loud, yet always clear enough to reach me and make me feel safe.
My grandmother's house was small. The old tin roof rattled whenever it rained, water dripping onto the cement floor below. In the yard stood an old guava tree. It didn't bear many fruits, but its shade spread wide. I often sat beneath it, playing with dirt and stones, or simply watching the clouds drift by.
Grandmother woke up very early.
While I was still curled up in my blanket, she was already busy lighting the stove. The soft sound of the bamboo fan, the gentle clink of pots against the stove—everything felt familiar. She always tried to do things as quietly as possible, as if afraid of waking me.
Every morning before going to work, she would sit down beside my bed.
"Sleep a little longer,"
she would whisper.
"I'll go work for a bit and come back."
I opened my eyes and nodded. She patted my head once—her hands rough, but warm.
"Be good at home. If you get hungry, take some biscuits from the jar, alright?"
"I'll be home a bit late."
She always said a bit late, as if saying it would make time feel shorter for me.
I nodded.
I always nodded.
After she left, the house became very quiet. Not the comforting kind of quiet, but the kind where you could hear your own heartbeat. I often sat on the bed for a long time before getting down, because the moment my feet touched the floor, the emptiness would rush in.
There was an old dog in the house. Its fur was scruffy, light brown. It didn't bark at strangers or run around. All day it lay in one spot, eyes half-closed, ears still alert.
I often lay down beside it.
Not because I liked dogs.
But because it was there.
Just having another living being breathing in the same space made me feel less alone.
On some afternoons, sunlight slanted through the doorway. I leaned my back against the dog's belly, listening to its steady breathing. I didn't fully sleep—I just closed my eyes, letting time slow down a little.
When my grandmother came home, she was usually very tired.
Her back was soaked with sweat, her shirt worn thin at the shoulders. She washed her hands and cooked dinner. The meals were simple—sometimes just vegetable soup and eggs—but she always served me first.
"Eat more,"
she smiled.
"Grow up strong."
She didn't ask much. She didn't teach me to become anything great. She only wished for me to be safe.
My mother wasn't there often.
Every time my mother came home, I knew the moment she stepped through the gate. Not because of her footsteps, but because the air in the house changed. I would automatically sit up straight, hands folded neatly in my lap.
My mother would often look at me for a long time.
Sometimes she patted my head.
Sometimes she stayed silent.
And sometimes, she hit me.
Not violently at first. Usually, she scolded me. Then she hit me. Like a familiar sequence.
I didn't understand why. I only knew I had to stand still.
Once, I saved my breakfast money to buy a small toy. I hid it in my bag, thinking my grandmother wouldn't notice. But my mother came home and saw it.
She didn't ask where the money came from.
She didn't ask if I liked it.
She picked up a ruler.
I still remember the burning sensation in my hands, strike after strike. I bit my lip and didn't cry out loud. I don't know why I didn't scream—I only felt my throat tighten until no sound could come out.
My grandmother was in the kitchen. When she heard the scolding, she ran out and pulled me into her arms. At that moment, I saw my mother's eyes glisten slightly with tears—but I didn't understand why.
(Now, I understand.)
That night, my grandmother applied medicine to my hands. She didn't say much. She only let out a very soft sigh.
"Bear with it a little, my child,"
she said.
"When you grow up, things will be different."
I didn't understand what different meant.
But I believed her.
She was the only person I trusted.
Those days passed very slowly. I grew up in quietness. I learned to read adults' expressions. I learned when to speak, when to stay silent. I learned to avoid things that might make others unhappy.
When my grandmother became ill, she hid it.
She still went to work. Still cooked. Still smiled. She just rested more often, sighed more frequently. I noticed—but I didn't know what to do.
Then one day, she couldn't get up anymore.
I sat beside her bed, holding her hand. Her hand was colder than usual.
"Be good,"
she whispered.
"In the future… no matter what happens, live properly. Don't forget honesty and filial piety, alright?"
I nodded, tears falling onto her hand.
My grandmother passed away when I was eight years old.
That day, it rained heavily. The entire house was damp. People came and went. I hugged the dog and sat in a corner, watching everything unfold like a dream I couldn't wake from.
From that day on,
I no longer felt that any place was truly home.