I live in a town where monsters dress like humans by day and fairies creeps the woods

like wolves at night. From the outside, it looks like a small and peaceful

town. But once you’ve set your foot on its land, you’ve already lost your

chance to look back.

A small town where in every corner lives a

witch and mysterious disappearances happens every week. Unanswerable questions

seems solvable with distress, and when in doubt, just go ahead and take some

notes from the seamstress.

A town where houses are built like

mansions. Some looked empty, some looked inhabitable. Some have names and some

are built like numbers. Streets are named after colors but every house seems to

be devoid of its specific tincture.

The people who resides in the town follows

only three rules: one, never look someone directly in the eye. Two, don’t ever

trust someone’s reflection, especially your own. And three, never swim in the

Lake of Life, if you want to come back alive.

Welcome to Hiraeth, a small town you’ll never forget.

    I once lived in a house full of boys.

My dad, my brother, my uncle and his son. My mom

and I were the only females in the house and I can say it’s a little difficult

to live sometimes. The final decision isn’t yours to decide, even if it

involves your life. So I was not surprised to wake up one morning to find out

that Mom secretly packed her bags and left early at dawn without a sound. I

can’t say that she left without a single trace, for she left a note on top of

the kitchen table where I usually eat breakfast. On a cheap yellow sticky note,

the words ’Here I ate’ were written in Mom’s penmanship. Did I cry? No. Did I

feel sad, yes a little bit of sadness was added to my depression. But did I

feel betrayed you asked? Hell yes, I’m seething of anger for I’ve been betrayed

on so many levels. Like how can she do that to her own daughter? Leaving me in

a place that reeks of patriarchy, does she not love me?

    I understand that she hated her life since the day my brother was born.

Dad changed, he suddenly became this dictator

where every word that comes out of his mouth should be worshipped and abided.

Just because a son was born to inherit whatever beliefs he believes that a son

should take into heart.

    Indeed Mom was heartbroken to see the love of her life to change like that.

But this was not the first time her heart broke for my father. When I was born, a girl,

her heart was torn into pieces to see the disappointment in my father’s eyes.

When my uncle and his son moved in because they lost their home and overstayed

their welcome for almost 15 years now, Mom didn’t say anything even if she was

treated as a maid sometimes. When father slept with a woman other than my Mom

because he was sad that his first born wasn’t a boy. His first born, a female,

that Mom gave birth 6 years ago. I know right? What a douche, Mom should’ve

just left him. But no, she loved my father so much that she stayed and

withstood the pain of trying so many times to have a son to fix her marriage

that in the first place, her marriage should have been perfect if she married

the right guy. But no, she still chose my douche of a father.

    For almost 19 years, I only saw her looked

genuinely happy in her wedding photos and during my school festivities (which

of course my Dad doesn’t attend) where I walked up the stage to receive various

awards I’ve won. I saw her cry on multiple occasions. I saw her cry hard inside

their bedroom the day she found out that father cheated. I saw her cry silently

when father scolded her of being selfish because she pointed out nicely that

his brother might be overstaying their welcome. She cried without tears while

holding a cupcake with a single lit candle, singing happy birthday with her

shaky voice so I won’t feel sad that my Dad refused to buy me even the simplest

cake on my 18th birthday. She cried so much that it felt like a

routine. Keeps on going, never changing.

    So when I went to the kitchen to greet my

Mom a happy birthday, only to find a yellow sticky note. I knew she was gone. I

hid the note in my pocket when Dad went in the kitchen and ordered me, yes not

asked, to cook for his breakfast. I obliged calmly but my insides were churning

with anger. He didn’t asked for Mom, or where she was, his wife that cooks

every single morning for our meal is absent and not a word related to Mom came

out of his mouth. Guess his breakfast is more important than his wife. My

brother came to the kitchen along with Uncle and his son to ask for breakfast.

Since father and his brother taught their sons that cooking is a female’s job,

I became their personal chef for the day. After father and uncle headed for

work, my brother came up to me while I was cleaning the dishes and asked where

mom was. As much as I hate my father, I couldn’t hate my brother. He didn’t do

anything wrong, besides he’s this fluffy cinnamon roll who is so nice to

everybody that nobody can ever hate him. Sometimes I think he might be born in

the wrong family because he was too good for us, a complete opposite of my

father.

     I replied with a simple, I don’t know, gone? He’s not the

smartest kid but he knew what I meant. He sat down, grabbed what it seems a

gift for Mom from his pocket and looked at me sadly.

She’s really gone, isn’t she? Her favorite book was missing when I

checked on the bookshelf. We really don’t deserve this kid. When I was

finished with my chore, he was still sitting sadly while looking at his gift. I

felt a pang in my heart. Mom loved us equally, she did not favor one over the

other. And that made Luke love Mom more than father who favored him so much.

     So when I grabbed his gift and told him that I’ll go and look for Mom. He

knew I won’t come back. He shed tears silently and hugged me. When he stopped

crying, he reached for his pocket then gave me a small black box with a tied

blue ribbon on top. He quietly said happy birthday too sis for his voice is too

shaky to speak clearly. He hugged me again and whispered,

Don’t worry about me sis. Go find Mom and when you do, live your life

and be happy.

     I hugged him again for one last time after

I packed my things. I left the house without looking back and shed some tears

of happiness and ache for my brother. For my brother didn’t just gave me an

expensive looking box, he also gave me my freedom.

    When I was five,

my Mom used to take me to various affordable tourist spots in our

city after school.  My father won’t give any penny to my mother when it comes to leisure, in short, he doesn’t give

a flying **** about my happiness. All he wanted was for me to stay home after

school and learn to do chores because I’ll

be staying and taking care of the house when I get married anyway, that was he

said. So in order to be exposed to what adults do during their daily lives, Mom

takes me to different places every other day. I guess this was her way of

erasing my father’s belief in my mind that women belong in the house where they’ll

do nothing but housework.

     One time we visited this famous park with a

playground that has an enormous slide. I played so much with the other kids and

befriended them even though five year old me knew I’ll never see them again. I

remember having so much fun until this certain boy I didn’t even befriended

that time decided to lift my skirt up and showed everyone my underwear while we

were waiting for our turns in the slide. That day was the first time I decided

to wear a skirt, not my mother. I didn’t cry nor threw a tantrum, I just walked

my way to my mother and said that I wanted an ice cream. I remember how warm

her hands were when she held my little icy hand. We sat on a bench and ate our

ice cream while observing strangers having fun in the park. Young as I was, I

asked my mother why does boys think they can do anything they want just because

they’re boys or if I really looked that frail and weak because I wore a pastel

pink skirt. She looked at me, smiled and said,

No honey, you aren’t weak. Boy or girl, wearing pants or skirt, gender

or clothes, neither of the two define your place in this world. What you treat

others as a person does. So when you grow up, I want you to treat everyone

equally with respect regardless of their gender nor race. But when you come

across with that kind of boy in the future again, punch him hard on the face

okay? I giggled and made a pinky promise with her that I’ll do what she

said especially the one where I’ll punch every guy who can’t keep their hands

to themselves.

     Our happiness were gone soon enough as we

got home. Father was angry at both Mom and me because it was already dinner by

the time we came home. No, he wasn’t angry his five year old child was out

late, he was angry because he was hungry and Mom wasn’t there to cook for his

dinner. You know, I can’t understand how a fully grown man with a high-paying

job and two functional arms can’t cook nor call a pizzeria to order some pizza

or pasta to eat for dinner. Mom just sent me upstairs to change and said she’ll

give me my dinner later in my room. When she came, her eyes were puffy and red

but she still smiled at me. After that day, I never wore a skirt again, wearing

a skirt reminds me of that boy in the playground. A year after, Mom and I

stopped going to different places after school when she found out she was

pregnant, with a boy. Father became much stricter than ever when he found out.

My routine revolved around the house and school only. To ease my boredom at

home, I just read everything I need for school and help my mom with the chores

since she’s pregnant with my brother.

     Hours after I left the house and visited

the places we used to go, I went to the park, sat on the same bench and ate the

same ice cream while hoping to see Mom. While I was reminiscing our promise, I

giggled a bit because I never told her I punched every boy who said I should

wear a skirt because I will look good in it, and no they didn’t say it as a

compliment. My punches never landed me a place in the principal’s office. Why

you asked? Well I spent my time observing people or places when I’m bored at

school and I heard multiple secrets spilled on various places I was present at.

A little blackmail saved me from having a record, but it’s a win-win situation

though. They get to keep their secrets, I get to keep my record clean. But that

doesn’t matter now because I ran away from home and I’m skipping school to find

my Mom.

     The note wasn’t the only thing Mom left for

us, she left two bankbooks for me and my brother. Each was hid under our

pillow. She must’ve hidden it and kissed our foreheads goodbye while we were

sleeping. The bankbook contains an enormous amount of money, I was shocked

because I have no idea how Mom saved that much for the both of us. Maybe she

already predicted that I’ll come and find her once we’ve discovered she left.

My brother wanted deep in his heart, to follow Mom. But he knew hell will break

loose once father found out he ran away, father will blame Mom and Luke doesn’t

want that.

     The sun was setting already when I decided

to find a place to crash. I could’ve gone and checked myself in to a five-star

hotel with this amount of money I have but instead I chose to stay in a hostel

near my old school. My Mom always talked about how she liked the architectural

design of the hostel when we passed by it on the way home from school. She said

it was her style. You see, Mom was an architect, a famous one, worked in a hit

architectural firm. But then she met father at the firm, I guess they really

loved each other deeply at that time because when father made Mom quit her job

to be a housewife, she agreed. Mom really did waved her career goodbye for an

***.

     Mom has a good eye for buildings though,

the inside of the hostel is as aesthetically pleasing as its design on the outside.

I checked myself in hoping to find Mom, she liked the hostel maybe she’s here.

I showed the staffs Mom’s picture, asking if they saw her. One answered no,

another answered that they can’t give out client information unless I’m a

police or investigator. I thanked them and made my way to my room. As I was

passing by the lobby, a lady who happens to be crocheting suddenly said out of

the blue, you have your mother’s eyes.

     I immediately stopped on my tracks and

asked the lady if she knew or saw my mom.

You were so little the last time I saw you, who knew you’d grow up to be this beautiful

with such fiery eyes, was she said. It was a weird thing to hear especially

from a lady you can’t remember you’ve encountered years ago. Then what she said

next, made my brain think harder than I did in school.

You see, your mother chose knitting over crochet, thought that was the

best option but then everything unraveled with one wrong stitch, strings of

yarn got tangled and the only thing left was to ditch the knit.