For as long as I could remember, my softness was a landmark in the family—a trait that drew both warmth and wary glances. I was the child who flinched at raised voices, who lingered too long in the kitchen doorway, whose laughter was often interrupted by whispers. In their eyes, I was fragile, delicate, a vessel to be guided or, sometimes, to be judged. I carried my heart like a lantern, transparent and eager, believing that family meant sanctuary.
I trusted him. My cousin, older, sure-footed, the one whose voice could make the house laugh or fall silent. He was the river I waded into, thinking its currents would cradle me. But that night, that quiet, ordinary night, the river changed. I was submerged, and the water was not soft. My voice, usually so quick to speak, was trapped beneath a weight I could not name. I tried to push it out, but the air refused me, and the walls held their breath with me.
The next morning, the house smelled of fried garlic and burnt rice, as if nothing had happened. I carried the memory like a stone in my chest, each step heavy with fear and disbelief. I went to my parents, the people who should have been my fortress. I told them. I expected tears, anger, a shield raised on my behalf. Instead, I met a silence colder than any winter morning. Eyes that had once cradled me now avoided mine. Their concern folded neatly into polite questions about inheritance, land, and “keeping peace.” My truth was inconvenient; my pain was a shadow too threatening for their bright parlors.
And the rest of the family? They never spoke directly, but I felt it in every glance. The aunties at the dining table, exchanging quiet looks, lips twitching with unspoken commentary. The jokes of my uncle, designed to mask discomfort, landing like small, deliberate knives. Their laughter filled the room like smoke, and I was choking, invisible yet painfully conspicuous. Even my “softness,” once tender, became a punchline.
Even my softness changed meaning. It became something to tease, something to poke at during meals. Ang arte mo talaga. The laughter that followed always felt rehearsed. I laughed too, because not laughing would have been worse.
What hurt most was not only what was done to me, but how easily it was set aside. How quickly the family chose comfort over truth. How silence became a shared agreement, and I was the only one not allowed to forget.
I learned that harm does not end with the act itself. It echoes—in the way people look away, in the way stories are edited, in the way a child learns that speaking can cost more than staying quiet.
Some nights, I imagine walking into the garden, letting the moonlight soak into my chest, letting the world know I exist. I am not invisible. I am not a joke. And one day, my voice—once trapped—will spill out. I will speak, not just the story of that night, but the story of every glance that cut, every laugh that belittled, every hand that should have held me but chose gold and quiet instead.
Kuya… tama na po. That phrase lingers on my lips like smoke. Not a cry of weakness, but of resistance. A vow to myself, to the soft and tender parts that they tried to silence. I will carry them, the lantern of my heart, and let its light reach where others would not.
