Chapter 3 - Behind every smile there's a story untold

There was a time in my life when everything felt like it was changing all at once. A new school, new friends, new teachers, a completely unfamiliar environment—and, on top of that, the constant pressure to become the topper. I was just a child, and all the decisions were made for me by my mother.

I had always been a bright student, so I skipped year 3. After finishing year 2, we moved me to St. James Mariaton Private School, one of the best private schools at the time. But that change didn’t bring happiness—it brought cruelty.

I was dark-skinned, short, skinny, and considered ugly by others. My hair was so short that even in girls’ clothes, I often looked like a boy. Naturally, no girls were interested in me. I tried, desperately, to fit in—but I never did.

I remember the excitement of wanting to share something new with my classmates. One day, I asked my mother to give me a soft drink in a bottle that looked like water. I was so excited to show it to my friends, to finally be part of the fun. But when I offered it, the boys and girls pretended to have headaches, claiming their heads were spinning. I got a call from the school guardian. At that moment, I convinced myself they were pretending just because they didn’t like me.

That period was filled with tantrums, hate, and even my first innocent crush on a boy. But I was just a child, riddled with complexes and confusion. Finally, the year ended, and I passed into 6th grade. I felt neither happy nor sad—just empty, indifferent to the result.

My memories are vague, but I remember my mother starting to give tuitions everywhere, dragging me along. Ironically, while she focused on teaching other kids, my own studies were neglected. I struggled and begged her to teach me, fearing failure. And yet, even my pleas often met with punishment.

I recall one incident vividly—after a midterm science exam, she beat me harshly because I didn’t write the sentences without gaps. Even though I later scored 20/20, the memory stayed lodged in my mind, a reminder of constant fear and shame. I remember sitting in front of my classmates, unable to lift my head, consumed by humiliation.

There was a day we visited an uncle’s house because his mother was sick. I remember forcing a smile, excusing myself to the washroom, and staring at my reflection. I wanted to look pretty—why? Because I didn’t want anyone comparing me to my mother’s fair skin. Even as a child, I understood the weight of comparisons, and I longed, desperately, to be seen.

This was my secret story—my struggle hidden behind small smiles, silent cries, and the weight of expectations. It was a world where appearances mattered, where kindness was rare, and where a little girl, dark-skinned and short, fought to find her place and her identity.

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