After the Storm

When people asked Rose how her life was, she usually smiled with the same statement, “It’s been a long ride on the road but I’m still walking”. But she didn’t say how the ride was. Here’s her story:

Rose started in a one room apartment, with a leaky roof in a town probably not listed on the map. She was born on stormy day. Her father used to joke that the wind came along to greet her on that day. Her father was a hard working man, the type whose hands were stained with oil and charcoal.

By the time Rose was seven, she knew how to boil rice, take care of her little brother and learnt to keep out of her father’s way whenever he came home drunk, probably from the weight of over thinking and disappointment.

Her mother used to sing songs to her, but she always looked tired. Her mother died of an illness they couldn’t afford to cater. Her father just sank into himself, he was broken after that.

School was nowhere easy. She had lunch by herself, she didn’t have any friends and some kids would laugh about her accent. She didn’t pay much attention to that, she read what she could. She only found peace in the books she read, where she felt the world was full of roses.

At sixteen, she dropped out of school and started working different shifts. Her brother needed someone, and school didn’t feed mouths. She worked extra hard just so she’ll get tipped with spare change. After putting her brother to sleep, she’ll stuff her face into her pillow and cry herself to sleep.

She made mistakes. She fell for a guy who made promises to her, told her she mattered. But those promises were just empty words.

Her brother got a scholarship. First in their family to go to college. She worked extra nights just to help him out. It took months – years. But she didn’t mind. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

At thirty, Rose went back to school herself. She sat in a class full of students living the lives she wished she had at a younger age, who had parents who dropped them off and reminded them to eat. But she didn’t envy them, she had no time to.

She studied at night, failed a few tests, cried quietly. But she called no quits. She graduated at thirty-four. Her brother was there, crying in the front row like a child. Her father wasn’t there though, he’d passed away silently with a note that read “I’m sorry I couldn’t be a father you could look up to. I’m sorry for all the storms I brought into your life.”

She’s still in town but helping girls who remind her of herself. She tells them they can still write their story, hands them books and tells them they’ll find a world inside that believes in them, even when the real world doesn’t. And still believes in books where the world was more peaceful.

And people asked Rose how her life had been, she usually smiled and say, “It’s been a long ride on the road but I’m still walking”.

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