𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 | f. w

prologue

My dad left when I was eight.

I don't recall much about him—he remains a blurred face mostly, a half-forgotten memory—but I know that he was anything but a good person. His presence in our house was like a dark cloud that never lifted. He used to scream and pick a fight with my mum every chance he got, and it didn't seem to matter to him how much she tried to keep him happy, even when it made her absolutely miserable. Her attempts to appease him were futile, and the tension in our home was a constant undercurrent that shaped my early years.

In the end, she found the courage to leave, having finally had it with his recurrent bad mood, proclivity for booze, and various affairs he claimed were mere "mistakes" he swore to never repeat. I remember the night she decided to leave vividly. She stood in the dim light of our cramped kitchen, her face pale but determined. The weight of her decision seemed to hang in the air, and even at that young age, I knew something significant was happening.

To this day, I'm still astounded by Mum's bravery. Eight months into her pregnancy with my little sister Darla (now 14), she managed to make a life for herself without him. She found a small apartment, started working two jobs, and somehow kept us all together. Me and all four of my siblings managed alright, and it is all thanks to Marwa Adler-Manning. Her strength became the cornerstone of our lives, and we all drew from her well of resilience.

After a few years of struggle, though, Mum made the difficult decision to leave us to "find herself" and heal from everything that had happened with Dad. She said she needed to rediscover who she was, away from the shadows of our past. It was a hard pill to swallow, but I couldn't blame her. She'd been through so much and deserved a chance to heal.

She sends us postcards every few months from wherever she is in the world. Paris, Tokyo, Buenos Aires—each card a glimpse into the life she's carving out for herself, far from the turmoil she left behind. The postcards are like little treasures to me, each one a reminder of her strength and the adventurous spirit she passed on to us. We rarely see her, but those cards are proof that she's out there, living, healing, and hopefully finding some semblance of peace.

I look up to her and see her as a hero, despite her abandoning us. It's a complicated kind of admiration, mingled with a longing for the mother who used to hold us together. I imagine I got my stubbornness and unrelenting willpower from her. It's a trait that runs deep in our family, a necessary tool for survival in a world that hasn't been kind to us.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I have four siblings (five if you count me) of which I am the third-born. Darla is the youngest, she's a ray of sunshine. Her smile has a way of lighting up the darkest days, and I feel very protective of her, especially because some of the other kids in her year have been known to pick on her on occasion. She's a sensitive soul, but her spirit is unbreakable, much like Mum's.

Then there's Nora, who's seventeen and an absolute airhead, though I love her just the same. She has a way of drifting through life, seemingly unaware of the storm around her. She likes to blame me for Dad leaving and then Mum, and we disagree more often than not. We're both just as stubborn, which I'm glad for in a way, but it can also be frustrating. Our arguments are like two storms clashing, intense and destructive, but there's always a calm after, an unspoken understanding that we're in this together.