DAY 10: IT'S MY FAULT
SUNDAY
I don’t even know how to begin writing this. Today feels like a wound that won’t stop bleeding.
The day started off so normal.
Mom was in the kitchen making her usual Sunday morning aloo parathas. Dad was sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone and grumbling about work emails. I thought it would be just another lazy Sunday, the kind where nothing happens, and you’re almost glad for it.
Then it started.
It was something stupid, really. Something that shouldn’t have mattered.
“Why haven’t you folded the laundry yet?” Mom asked. She always finds little things to pick on.
I shrugged and mumbled, “I’ll do it later.”
“Later? That’s all you ever say! You never finish anything you start.”
It escalated quickly.
Her words started piling on, one after the other, like they’d been building up for years. I tried to ignore her at first, but... something inside me snapped.
“Why do you care so much about laundry? It’s not like it’s the end of the world!” I said, louder than I intended.
And then Dad jumped in.
“You don’t talk to your mother like that,” he said, his tone was so cold. He never yelled at me.
That’s when everything changed. They weren’t yelling anymore.
Mom put down the spatula she was holding and turned to me. Her face was so calm, it was almost scary.
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“Do you ever think about how hard we work for you?” she asked. “How much we sacrifice for you?”
“Sacrifice?” I laughed bitterly. “What exactly have you sacrificed for me? All you ever do is tell me how much of a disappointment I am. How I can’t do anything right. Is that what you call sacrifice?”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought she was going to scream at me. But she didn’t. She just looked at me, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You have no idea,” she said quietly. Why do her eyes look watery?
And then Dad said it.
“It’s your fault.”
The room went silent.
I felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs.
“What?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, his jaw clenched, like he was holding something back.
“Nothing,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
But I couldn’t.
“What do you mean it’s my fault?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“I said forget it!” he snapped, slamming his hand on the table.
Mom put a hand on his arm, like she was trying to calm him down, but she didn’t deny it. She didn’t say anything at all.
I stood there, frozen.
What did he mean? What could possibly be my fault?
I tried to piece it together, but the harder I thought about it, the more it hurt.
Was it me? Was I the reason why everything felt so broken in this house?
I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but I couldn’t find the words.
Instead, I ran.
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I ended up in the park, sitting on that very old bench.
I kept hearing his words over and over again in my head. It’s your fault.
What does that even mean? What did I do?
Was it my birth? Was it just me?
I thought about all the times they’d looked at me like I was a burden. All the times they’d sighed or rolled their eyes when I asked for something.
Maybe I was never supposed to be here. Maybe I’m the reason they’re so unhappy.
I stayed at the park until it got dark, and even then, I didn’t want to go home.
But I didn’t have a choice.
When I finally walked through the door, the house was quiet. The lights were off, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
They didn’t say anything when they saw me. They didn’t even look at me.
I went straight to my room and closed the door.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Diary.
How do you fix something when you don’t even know what’s broken?
How do you keep going when the people who are supposed to love you the most look at you like you’re a mistake?
I don’t have any answers.
All I have is this unbearable ache in my chest and the sound of their words repeating in my head.
It’s my fault.
But I don’t know what I did.
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