Chapter One (.. continues)

Cindy Sisonke was my baby sister, and she seemed to be everything that I wasn't. Their laughter together was like a light that I could never seem to touch. I watched from the sidelines, feeling the sharp sting of longing as I saw how much our mother, Suzanna, adored Cindy. It was a love I craved but could never quite grasp.If only I could be more like Cindy—more gentle, more affectionate—maybe my mother would finally see me. I was desperate to find a way into her heart. So, I started to shadow Cindy, trying to uncover her secret to winning our mother's favor.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 way with animals and people that made her shine brightly in our mother's eyes. I believed that if I could just mimic her, I might finally get the love I so desperately wanted.One afternoon, Cindy dashed off to her netball practice after school, leaving me alone at home. My heart raced with determination. This was my chance. I crept into our mother's room where Cindy's makeup kit was kept. My hands shook as I approached the dressing table, my mind a whirl of excitement and fear.I pulled out the small wooden box that contained the makeup. Inside were the tools of transformation: a comb, red lipstick, face powder, and the earrings our mother loved. I grabbed the lipstick and, with trembling hands, began applying it to my lips. I carefully painted my bottom lip, then the top, until the red was vibrant and bold.As I finished, I looked at my reflection and smiled. "I look pretty," I thought to myself, hoping this change would be enough to earn my mother's approval. With a sense of triumph, I left the bedroom and sat on the living room sofa, waiting for her return.When I heard the front door open, my heart skipped a beat. I could barely contain my excitement. This was it. This was the moment that would change everything. As my mother called out, "Mina, are you home?" I fought to keep my composure."Yes, Mom, I'm here," I replied, trying to sound casual. I kept my eyes fixed on the TV, my nerves frayed. My mother's footsteps grew louder as she approached. I slowly turned to face her, my heart pounding.The moment she saw me, her expression fell. Her eyes locked onto my red lips, and her face hardened into a mask of confusion and disapproval. A heavy silence filled the room. I felt my stomach knot with fear."Are you wearing my lipstick?" she asked, her voice cold and sharp.I nodded, unable to speak. My throat felt tight, and my eyes stung with tears. I had hoped this gesture would bring us closer, but the look on her face told me otherwise."Sorry, Mom, I'm sorry," I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks.She stared at me for a moment longer, her gaze filled with an intense disappointment. Then she turned and walked towards her room, leaving me alone with my heartache.In that painful silence, I understood the truth that cut deeper than any words could. No matter how much I tried to mimic Cindy, I would never fill the space in my mother's heart that she reserved for her youngest daughter. I was her fourth son, and the love she had for Cindy seemed like a luxury I could never afford.Our family's history was one of broken relationships and bitter memories. My mother had divorced her first husband—my three older half-brothers' father—because of his constant abuse. She had left her hometown of Aliwal North to start anew in Cape Town, where she met my father. But the past lingered like a shadow over us, shaping the painful present.Living with her was a constant struggle. Her alcoholism meant that Cindy and I often came home to an empty house, with no food and no warmth. I remembered one afternoon when Cindy and I came back from school to find the house bare. Her sad eyes mirrored my own feelings of helplessness. She was only nine, and I felt a deep sorrow for her.We didn't have lunch boxes like other kids at school. It was a luxury we couldn't afford. We had to make do with what little we had. I spent many moments dreaming of a different life, one where we were like our friends, with full bellies and warm clothes.Those dreams were my escape from the harsh reality. I wished for a family like Aphiwe Mtatha's—kind and generous. Cindy and I would often visit Aphiwe and her uncle's house, finding comfort in their kindness and the food they shared with us.But even those brief moments of comfort couldn't change the truth: no matter how hard I tried, I could never be the child my mother wanted. Cindy would always be the favored one, and I would remain on the outside, yearning for a love that seemed forever out of reach.