I was TWELVE when she first asked me to tuck them into bed.
Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of tone that left no room for questions. I remember glancing at the clock, the numbers blurring in the dim hallway light. My small and unaware siblings tugged at my sleeve, asking for a story. And when I looked to her for guidance, she was already walking away, a shadow disappearing into the quiet darkness of their bedroom.
I wasn't sure when it started—the way I became an extension of her, a second mother, a silent partner in her marriage. But there was always this look in her eyes, a mix of expectation and something I couldn't name. As if, in her mind, I had been born for this role: caretaker, substitute, the steady anchor in a household where love was conditional.
I did what she asked, night after night. I tucked them in, cleaned their messes, and tended to their needs. And then, I waited for him to come home.
He would kiss her on the cheek, but his eyes... his eyes found me.
And that's when the silence began. The kind that tethered me, bound me to a life I never chose.