Before she learned to question her mother's love, she knew what it felt like to wait for it.
Whenever her mother travelled, the little girl counted the days.
She would ask Grandma the same questions over and over.
"When is Mama coming?"
"Soon."
"Tomorrow?"
Grandma would smile. "Maybe tomorrow."
The little girl never liked the word maybe. She wanted a definite answer.
She wanted to know exactly when her mother would return.
Because whenever Mama came home, something special came with her.
Sometimes it was a doll.
Sometimes a toy she had never seen before.
Sometimes it was something small that wouldn't have meant much to anyone else.
But to the little girl, those things were treasures.
She would run to her mother the moment she arrived.
"Mama!"
Her little arms would wrap around her mother's waist, and for those few moments, nothing else mattered.
Her father wasn't there.
The questions about why he had rejected her didn't matter.
The complicated family story didn't matter.
She had her mother.
And Mama had remembered her.
That was enough.
At night, she would take out whatever toy her mother had brought and examine it carefully.
"Did you buy this just for me?"
Her mother would smile.
"Yes."
The little girl would smile back.
Those moments became some of her favorite childhood memories.
She didn't know that years later, she would hold onto those memories desperately, trying to reconcile them with the woman her mother would eventually become.
Grandma was still her greatest comfort.
Even though she loved her mother, Grandma was the person who had been there through the ordinary days.
The mornings.
The meals.
The sickness.
The laughter.
The quiet evenings.
Grandma knew her in a way nobody else seemed to.
If the little girl was unusually quiet, Grandma noticed.
If she wasn't eating, Grandma asked questions.
If she cried, Grandma didn't immediately ask what she had done wrong.
She simply held her.
That difference mattered.
With Grandma, she never felt like she had to earn her place.
She belonged.
She didn't have to compete.
She didn't have to prove that she deserved love.
She was simply loved.
And that was why leaving Grandma's care became one of the hardest things she had ever experienced.
When her mother eventually came for her, the little girl was excited and frightened at the same time.
She was going to live with Mama.
Part of her was happy.
Maybe now she could finally have the mother she had always wanted.
Maybe she could wake up beside her.
Maybe she could tell her everything.
Maybe she wouldn't have to wait for her mother's travels to end before seeing her again.
But there was another part of her that didn't want to leave Grandma.
She packed her little belongings slowly.
She looked around the house.
Every corner held a memory.
She knew the sound of Grandma's footsteps.
She knew where everything was kept.
She knew where she liked to sit.
She knew where she felt safe.
Before she left, she ran into Grandma's arms.
"I'll come back."
Grandma held her tightly.
"Of course you will."
The little girl pulled away and looked at her.
"Don't forget me."
Grandma's eyes became wet.
"Never."
The girl smiled.
She believed her.
Then she walked away.
But she kept turning around.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Grandma was still standing there.
Still watching.
Still waving.
The little girl waved back until the distance swallowed the house.
She didn't know it then, but she had just left behind the safest place she had ever known.
Her mother's house was different.
There were more people.
More rules.
More expectations.
And there was her mother's husband.
Her stepfather.
At first, she tried to adjust.
She wanted everything to work.
She wanted to be close to her mother.
She wanted her younger siblings to feel that they could depend on her.
She wanted to prove that she could fit into this new family.
But something gradually changed.
The mother she remembered from those joyful reunions seemed harder to reach.
There were days when her mother was warm.
Other days, she felt distant.
Sometimes the little girl would look at her mother and remember the woman who had returned from travelling with a toy in her hands.
She would wonder where that woman had gone.
Maybe she was tired.
Maybe she was stressed.
Maybe she would become the same mother again tomorrow.
So the little girl waited.
She waited for the smile.
She waited for the affection.
She waited for the feeling she had known before.
But waiting slowly became part of her life.
She also began to notice how easily she could become the person blamed when something went wrong.
If there was an argument, she became involved.
If something was missing, questions were asked.
If she tried to explain herself, sometimes nobody wanted to hear the explanation.
The words came gradually.
"You are stubborn."
"You are troublesome."
"You are the bad child."
At first, she didn't accept them.
She knew herself.
She knew she wasn't bad.
But when a child hears the same thing often enough, doubt begins to creep in.
One day she looked at herself and wondered:
Maybe they are right.
That thought stayed with her.
She became quieter.
She began thinking before speaking.
She watched people's moods carefully.
She learned when to leave a room.
When to remain silent.
When not to ask questions.
She was growing up, but not in the carefree way children were supposed to.
She was learning survival.
And then there were moments she didn't understand.
Moments when people crossed boundaries they should never have crossed.
Moments that frightened her.
Moments she didn't know how to describe.
She was a child.
She didn't know the right words.
She only knew that sometimes she felt unsafe.
And when children don't understand what is happening to them, they often blame themselves.
She did too.
She wondered whether she had done something wrong.
Whether she had caused it.
Whether she would be blamed if she spoke.
So she kept quiet.
She carried things she should never have had to carry.
And the silence became another part of her childhood.
Still, whenever she thought about her mother, she remembered the toys.
She remembered running into her arms.
She remembered believing that her mother had travelled far away and still thought about her.
Those memories confused her as she grew older.
Because how could the woman who once made her feel so loved become someone whose actions could hurt her so deeply?
That question would follow her for years.
She wouldn't have an answer for a long time.
And by the time she finally understood, she would realize something painful:
Sometimes the person you miss most isn't the person standing in front of you.
Sometimes you miss who they used to be.
The little girl still held onto that version of her mother.
She still hoped she would return.
Just like she used to return from her travels.
With a smile.
With open arms.
With something special in her hands.
But this time, the mother she was waiting for wasn't coming back.
And the little girl had no idea that the next chapters of her childhood would change her forever.