I stood silently, the warm breeze brushing against me, unravelling memories I thought I'd concealed for so long. The silence in the room grew louder and my heart felt heavy.  

    I could no longer control my emotions, as a river of tears poured down my cheeks. Guilt flooded over me, my pale face buried in my palms.

   “Why didn't I listen to their words? Now I'm in this mess.”

    I never reckoned that the course of my life would unravel in such a sorrowful and regretful manner. Just a year ago, I was living with my parents and two younger siblings in a tiny three-bedroom apartment nestled in Lagos.

   Being the oldest child in my household, I had responsibilities to fulfil and I was often referred to as the “good child.” I looked after the household chores, cared for my siblings and followed the path my parents had drawn for me.

     At the time, it didn't bother me that my life wasn't mine. I served my parents, even when it hurt sometimes. I had to sacrifice my happiness to satisfy them.

   Amidst my friends' whispers and exchanging glances, I sensed their support urging me to stand up for myself. Despite their encouragement and the rising tension, I remained loyal to my convictions.

    “Maryam,” My father would mumble, his eyes filled with wisdom. “I just know you're on the right path in life and this is how you set a good example to your younger ones.”

     I would always nod in response, believing every decision I was making was right. 

     When it was time for me to leave for university, he sat me down and advised me not to be deceived by worldly temptations and to try to study hard.

      I took his advice and completed university smoothly. My family, overjoyed at my return home, welcomed me warmly.

      At twenty-five, still living in my family home, I faced job loss and a sense of aimlessness. I made a life-changing decision, filled with tension and anticipation, aware that revealing it would transform my life in unimaginable ways.

     My knees were trembling as I walked slowly into the living room. My father was in the living room, engrossed in the morning news. 

     “Daddy,” my soft voice echoed with fear. “There is something important I’d like to tell you”.

   My father turned to me slowly and raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

    The words were difficult to escape from my lips but I took a deep breath,  “I want to move out. I want to live on my own and get a job….”

    The room went still, and his expression shifted to disbelief. I knew my years of silence were over  and I remember what he said to me. 

     “So, this is how you repay me after everything?” His voice shook with rage. “You are not leaving this house. This nonsense ends now!”

     For the first time in my life, I disagreed with him. My sibling's eyes flickering, as they cuddled in a corner while my mother watched from the hallway, tears welled up in her eyes with no words. 

   I packed my bags and embraced my siblings tightly. My mother took my hand and looked deep into my eyes. 

    “I hope everything works out for you, my child.”

    The words he said before I walked out of the house with my bags  still etched in my mind. 

  “Don’t ever expect to come back home crying when the world chews you up”.

  The first few weeks were rough. The city was cold, and some nights I lay awake wondering if I made a mistake.

    But even through the loneliness, I felt something else — a strange peace. For once, every decision, every failure, every little joy was mine. 
   Because that girl — the one who lived only to please others — she’s not me anymore.