Shattered Echoes

The Child Who Bore the World

When I was six, the world was a weight I could not carry,
but I carried it anyway.
I had hands too small for their labor,
feet that walked on the cold floors of a house
that never felt like home.

Mama was always gone, chasing a living,
her hands roughened by the work of strangers,
bringing home scraps of hope
she tried to feed us with.
Her face was lined with exhaustion,
her voice soft as a lullaby she never had time to sing.

Daddy, though, sat in his chair by the window,
a bottle always in his hand,
his eyes glazed over with something I did not understand then -
pain, anger, or nothing at all.
He wasn’t a father;
he was a shadow in the corner of the room,
a man who smelled like bitterness and the bottom of a glass.

My sister was my partner in survival,
her arms no stronger than mine,
but her heart bigger,
as she held my hand and taught me how to mother
the babies Mama left behind.
We learned to keep the house clean,
to sweep the corners where dreams went to die,
to wash the windows and let in light
we barely had the strength to see.

I scrubbed the floors while the little ones cried,
and my sister would hush them,
her voice a melody of desperation.
"Don’t cry," she’d whisper,
though I think she was telling herself more than them.

I remember the clink of bottles on the floor,
the way Daddy’s voice rose like thunder
when the storm of his anger came.
I was too small to stop it,
too small to do anything but hide,
but I never cried.
I learned early that tears didn’t fix things.

There was no time for toys,
no space for laughter in a house where silence
was the safest sound.
Instead, I carried a broom like a scepter,
dragging it across the floor
as if cleaning could erase
the things we didn’t talk about.
My kingdom was a house of broken things,
and I was the queen of keeping it together.

Sometimes, I looked out the window
at the world beyond -
children running, their laughter carried by the wind.
I wondered what it felt like to be them,
to have a life that wasn’t measured
in chores and quiet sadness.
But those thoughts felt like betrayal,
like wishing for a life Mama couldn’t give us.
So I swallowed them whole,
like I swallowed my hunger
when there wasn’t enough food for everyone.

Mama came home late,
her face pale as moonlight,
her hands trembling from a day that had drained her.
She’d kiss us on the forehead,
one by one, her lips dry and warm.
But her love felt like an apology,
and I wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault,
but I didn’t have the words back then.

Daddy, on the other hand,
barely noticed us.
His love, if he had any,
was drowned in the liquor he loved more.
I hated him for it, but only quietly,
because hate was heavy,
and I was already carrying too much.

At six years old, I knew things I shouldn’t have.
I knew the sound of my sister crying softly at night.
I knew the sharp sting of hunger
and the dull ache of disappointment.
I knew how to scrub a floor until it gleamed,
but I didn’t know how to play.
I didn’t know how to be a child.

The world didn’t care that I was small,
that my back ached,
that my heart ached more.
It just kept spinning,
dragging me along,
a little girl with the weight of an entire family on her shoulders.

Some nights, I’d stare at the ceiling,
listening to the silence after Daddy passed out,
the babies finally asleep.
I’d wonder if this was all life had to give,
if this was all I was meant to be -
a cleaner of messes,
a keeper of peace,
a child pretending to be something more.

But the mornings always came,
and with them, the work.
The broom in my hand,
the mop dragging behind me,
the windows streaked with sunlight
I couldn’t feel.
And so I grew,
not upward,
but inward,
my soul twisting into shapes
a six-year-old shouldn’t know.

If I could go back now,
to that little girl with her dirty hands and tired eyes,
I’d tell her she was more than her chores,
more than her pain.
I’d tell her she was allowed to cry,
to dream,
to want more.

But I can’t go back.
All I can do is write,
lay these words down like breadcrumbs
for the child I was,
hoping she’ll find her way to a place
where she can finally rest.

༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･

Some children grow up with a heart full of dreams, others grow up with a heart full of burdens, learning to carry the weight of the world long before they’re old enough to understand its cost.