LEAP - The journal of a street kid

Unloved

Cindy was my baby sister, and she seemed to be everything that I wasn't. Her laughter was a bright, untainted light that shone through every room, a light I could never seem to touch. I watched from the sidelines, my heart heavy with the sting of longing as I saw how much our mother, Suzanna, adored her. It was a love that seemed to be reserved for Cindy alone—gentle, warm, unearned. A love that I craved but could never quite grasp.

If only I could be more like Cindy—more gentle, more affectionate, more like her, then maybe, just maybe, my mother would see me. Maybe I'd finally be worthy of that love, worthy of being her son. The thought consumed me, gnawed at me. I was desperate to find a way into her heart, to break through the cold wall that seemed to rise between us every time I reached out.

Cindy was, by all accounts, a beautiful girl. Our mother's favorite nickname for her was "my little princess," and it wasn't hard to see why. Cindy had a natural charm, a way with animals, people, even strangers. She lit up a room, and our mother adored her for it. I believed, for the longest time, that if I could just be more like Cindy—if I could just mimic the ease with which she existed in our mother's favor—maybe, just maybe, I could finally earn my place.

It was an impossible idea, I know now, but at the time, it felt like the only thing left for me to try.

One afternoon, Cindy dashed off to her netball practice after school, leaving me behind in the quiet emptiness of our house. I stood in the living room, watching the silence grow, my heart pounding with some new, desperate purpose.

This was my chance.

I moved like a thief in the night, careful not to make a sound. I crept into our mother's room, my eyes scanning the cluttered space until they landed on the small wooden box sitting on her dressing table. Cindy's makeup kit.

My hands shook with a mix of excitement and fear. What was I even doing? I didn't know. I only knew that I had to do something. Anything. Something to get her to look at me the way she looked at Cindy.

I opened the box, pulling out the small tools of transformation—combs, face powder, and the red lipstick that our mother always wore on special occasions. The lipstick was like an invitation to a world I could never touch, a world of grace, of beauty, of things my mother valued. I grabbed it, holding it like a key to something I thought I could unlock.

My hands were trembling as I unscrewed the cap and began applying the lipstick. It was harder than I expected. My lips weren't used to this, the brush felt foreign against my skin. But I was determined. Slowly, I painted my bottom lip, then the top, trying to make it perfect. Bold, bright red.

When I finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection was strange—unfamiliar, almost alien—but there was something else, something deeper. For the first time, I looked like someone else. For the first time, I saw a version of myself that might fit into the world where Cindy belonged.

"I look pretty," I whispered to myself, the words thick with desperation. If this was enough, if this gesture was enough, maybe—just maybe—my mother would notice me. Maybe she would finally look at me the way she looked at Cindy.

With a sense of quiet triumph, I left the room and settled into the living room, sitting on the couch, pretending to watch TV. But my heart was a drum in my chest. I was waiting for her.

Then, I heard the front door creak open.

My heart jumped into my throat.

"Mina, are you home?" My mother's voice, light and carefree, called out from the hallway.

I could barely contain the tremor in my hands. This was it.

I forced myself to speak, to act casual, even though my heart was racing, pounding. "Yes, Mom, I'm here," I called back, trying to sound normal, trying to hide the crack in my voice.

Her footsteps grew louder as she neared the living room. I stayed still, not moving, as if somehow my stillness would make this all less awkward. But then she stepped into the doorway, and I could feel the weight of her eyes on me. I slowly turned, holding my breath, as she scanned me with an unreadable expression.

For a moment, I thought I might get away with it. But then her gaze fell on my lips.

A beat of silence passed, long and heavy.

"Are you wearing my lipstick?"

Her voice was sharp, cold. I wanted to die right there.

I couldn't even answer. I just nodded, the truth hanging between us like a chasm. My throat tightened, and before I could stop it, tears sprang to my eyes.

"Sorry, Mom, I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.

Her eyes locked onto mine, intense with something I couldn't quite place—disappointment, anger, confusion. She didn't speak for a long time, just stared at me, like she was trying to figure out what I'd done. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, heading toward her room, leaving me sitting there in the thick, suffocating silence.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was left in the dim light, my face hot with shame. My tears fell freely now, the red lipstick a bitter reminder of everything I could never be.

And I understood it then—the truth I had tried to ignore for so long. No matter how much I tried to be like Cindy, I would never be her. I could never fill the space in our mother's heart that was reserved just for her.

I was always going to be the fourth son, the afterthought. And that love, the love that Cindy so effortlessly received, was a luxury I would never afford.

The past—our past—haunted me like a shadow I could never outrun. My mother's broken heart, my father's disappearance, the bitterness of everything we had endured together—it all loomed over us. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape it. I couldn't escape her.

Cindy and I didn't have a lot of things. We didn't have the lunch boxes the other kids did. We didn't have the fresh clothes or the toys. But I wanted to believe that somehow, through all of that, we'd still be okay. That we could be a family like the other families I saw. The kind of families that could sit down for dinner without fear, without sadness.

I envied families like Aphiwe Mtatha's. I spent countless afternoons at Aphiwe's house, where there was food and warmth, where I could pretend that we were like everyone else.

But no matter how much I tried to dream it, to feel it, I could never escape the reality of our home. Cindy, as perfect as she was, would always be the one my mother loved. And I would remain the one on the outside, desperately trying to fill a hole I could never reach.