01/02/2026
Life slowly began to get better, and I started to feel happy again.
Every morning, my mother would warm some oil and gently massage my baby. As she did this, she sang softly and said to me, “This child is a visitor. He didn’t come to stay. He’s just passing by. Don’t expect to eat his hands—he’s a visitor, only passing through.”
She repeated those same words every morning while I cleaned the house and made tea for the family. I cooked the meals, and my brothers, sisters, and I ate together.
In the evenings, my mother bathed my son with hot water and oil, still singing the same song and repeating the same words. At that time, I had no idea why she repeated them every morning and every evening while massaging and holding my child, but life felt calm and peaceful for a while.
Then one day, my mother told me she had heard people talking. They said the father of my baby had run away and would never come back. She was very upset. She said that if I had agreed to marry the traditional spiritual helper they had chosen for me, I would not have been left alone with a newborn baby on my hands.
She complained that now she had to take care of both me and my child.
She began comparing me to other girls. She said, “Look at them—their families arranged marriages for them. Their homes are improved, they wear nice clothes, and they live comfortably. But look at us. I am still here struggling with my small alcohol business.”
Sometimes she said she would give me one more chance to sell alcohol. But if the father of my child or his family did not start helping me, she and my father would take steps to give me back to the old man they had chosen for me to marry.
Her words made me feel stressed, sad, and hopeless. I did not want to go back to that old man. I hated the idea. I even thought about running away.
Then I came up with a plan.
I wrote a letter and pretended it was from the father of my child. I put some money inside and gave it to my mother, telling her he had sent it. When she opened the letter, her face changed. She looked happy and relieved.
When my father came home, she showed him the letter. They came to my room together. My father read it and handed the money to my mother. She divided it between him, herself, and me.
Seeing how happy my mother was made me feel peaceful again. So I kept doing it. I kept writing fake letters and adding money, pretending they were from the father of my child.
After that, my mother stopped shouting. She stopped comparing me to other girls. She stopped threatening to send me back to the old man.
For the first time in a long while, our home felt calm again.
Even though it was all a secret, I finally felt free.
