Eighteen Years of Debt Repayment

I'm the fifth child in my family, with four older sisters and a younger brother.

Six children in a rural family back then meant that simply getting enough to eat was a huge challenge. And I was the most troublesome of them all: sickly from childhood, with stomachaches that left me doubled over. Once a month, we went to the provincial capital by train, crossing mountain roads and spending eighty percent of the household income.

When I was nine, my mother made a decision. She made me the goddaughter of a family in the neighboring village. Superstition had it that this would “secure my life.” My godparents had two sons and were better off than we were. At holidays, they would buy me a few new outfits. They were mine, brand-new, with the tags still on. At home, I could only wear my sisters' hand-me-downs.

I thought I had gained another pair of parents and someone else to rely on.

That summer in fourth grade, my two godbrothers drowned while herding cattle. Out of guilt, my father said, “From now on, let the girl take care of you.” Those words became a shackle I carried for twenty years.

For eighteen years, I never missed a single holiday visit. They never asked about my studies, my health, or my future. They never gave me a cent or lifted a finger to help. Meanwhile, my mother sold the last egg-laying hen in the family to pay for my treatment.

This is not a story of revenge. It is a memoir about indebtedness, emotional blackmail, and making peace with yourself. When my heart finally went cold, I chose to speak out.

Because some supposed kindness was never kindness at all. You're not ungrateful; you're just exhausted.