Chapter 3: Echoes Unheard

Author's Note: I can't pick a single song, but listen to Coldplay's Parachutes Album while reading this chapter

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Chapter 3: Echoes Unheard

The car ride was suffocating. The kind of silence that didn't just sit in the air but pressed against my chest, thick and cloying like damp wool. We had barely left my grandparents' house, yet every second stretched, slow and unbearable. My eldest brother's car was ahead, my second-eldest trailing behind. I watched their tail lights flicker through the window, wishing I had taken my own car.

"What a humiliation," my father muttered at last. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim dashboard light. My mother didn't respond. She sat rigid, staring straight ahead, fingers digging into the folds of her dress.

"She didn't want him from the beginning," my father continued, voice low but sharp. "I told you we should have trusted her. Why must we meet the same family twice?"

A dull ache bloomed behind my eyes. I knew where this was headed.

They never believed me. Never.

They believed others over me—every single time. It didn't matter how much truth sat in my words, how many times I tried to reason with them, how much I pleaded. Someone else's voice always held more weight than mine. And that hurt.

I wished my father had fought for me, had put in the effort to go against my mother when it mattered, but he never did; he let my mother's decisions become law, even when they trampled over me. They could have discussed things with me, included me, treated me as an equal in my own life, but no, to them, I was always wrong.

Now, here they were, regretting it.

For once—for the first time in my life—my father admitted it: admitted that they should have trusted me, but it was too late—too late to undo the years of pain, the silent nights I spent crying, and the resentment that hardened inside me like unbreakable stone.

Too late, after I had grown up with traumas, with hatred, and with a grudge I couldn't let go of—because it didn't just wound me—it changed me.

It shaped the way I moved through life and made me hesitant to trust and to believe in anyone but myself. It pushed me into loneliness and made me an introvert not by nature—but by survival. Alone was the only place I could exist without someone trying to control me—without someone trying to dictate my life as if I were a side character in their grand story.

I lost my spark because of them—lost the joy, the carefree laughter and the warmth I once had. Instead, I spent years chasing achievements, competing with my siblings, trying so hard to prove my worth. But in the end, what did it even matter? No accomplishment was ever enough to them. No victory was truly mine. They still thought they knew better.

But what about me? What about my happiness?

"It wasn't an official meeting, at that time," my mother snapped, her guilt laced with irritation. "She just jumped to conclusions that he was horrible."

Jumped to conclusions? If only. That man had thrown every red flag in my face like he was conducting a parade. He sat there, grinning like some benevolent king, expecting me to grovel at his feet for the privilege of becoming his unpaid housemaid. Every sentence out of his mouth had been dipped in arrogance and wrapped in the entitlement of a man who thought he was the main character in everyone's story.

"I plan to move abroad, so you'd have to figure out how to help me find a job there," he had said, as if my life's mission was suddenly to be his personal employment agency. "But don't worry, you won't need to work. A woman's place is to take care of the house and kids. I'll be the breadwinner."

The irony was so sharp it could've slit my patience in half. Breadwinner? He barely made enough to cover rent, yet here he was, puffing up his chest like a peacock with a plucked tail. Meanwhile, I—despite not even reaching a managerial position yet—already made more than he did. But of course, in his world, my success was invisible, irrelevant.

And just when I thought he couldn't get any worse, he smirked and said, "I heard you don't know how to cook. You should start learning unless you want your husband to find someone else. Men have needs, you know."

That was when I truly realized the depth of his stupidity. Not just because of what he said, but because he actually believed it. I had heard the rumor before—the whispers that I was too educated to know basic skills, that I was too independent to be a proper wife. It had always been amusing, how easily people convinced themselves of things they had no proof of. I had cooked more meals than I could count, helped my mother prepare feasts for guests and perfected dishes that took hours to make. But I had never performed it. Never flaunted it for approval. And that, apparently, made it untrue.

Let them think I couldn't cook. Let them think I was useless in the kitchen. If a man's faithfulness depended on whether I spent my evenings stirring a pot, then he wasn't a man worth keeping.

I had wanted to snap back right then and there, to tell him that the only thing I'd be cooking was an escape plan. But instead, I smiled—oh, I had smiled so sweetly. And when I excused myself from the room, I knew I wasn't just walking away from a conversation. I was walking away from a life that would have suffocated me.

And now, my mother sat here, acting like I had overreacted, like I had let my silly little emotions cloud my judgment. No, I hadn't jumped to conclusions. I had run from a disaster before it could trap me.

I exhaled, leaning my head against the window, the cold glass a small relief against the heat burning inside me. I could see my second-eldest brother's car behind us, a silent out. My fingers twitched. I grabbed my phone and quickly texted him.

"Take me. I can't last in this car."

I didn't wait for his response before speaking, my voice distant as if coming from somewhere outside my own body. "It wasn't because I 'jumped to conclusions' any more than it was because you didn't trust me like you trust my brothers. You did the same thing when I told you about my cousins."

The words hung in the air, weighty and accusatory.

My father let out a long sigh, the kind that carried regret but no action, no apology. My mother, however, latched onto my words like a trap snapping shut.

"Stop bringing your brothers into everything!" she burst out. "Everyone was concerned about you, Nesilhan! You're almost thirty and alone. How long should we take care of you?"

I clenched my hands in my lap, nails biting into my palms. Here we were, back at square one, spinning around the same argument like a broken record, skipping over the same notes. It was the same argument for the past ten years–we weren't over it.

"So?" I said, my voice controlled but shaking. "I won't waste my efforts for nothing. You should try trusting me more. Having faith in me."

My father reached out, placing a calming hand on my mother's arm, but she yanked away. "Your country is your country, Neslihan! You are a female! How will you live alone?"

There it was. The invisible leash she wanted to keep wrapped around my throat.

I bit my lip, turning sharply to look at the road behind us. Murat's car was still there, a quiet shadow in the night. I forced my voice to stay steady. "The instability here is none of my business. I worked too hard—topped my classes, earned a job with experience—only to end up with that guy unemployed and a housewife. For eight years, I have been telling you: find me a local job with good standing and good pay, and then I'll consider coming back."

Silence.

I let the words settle before throwing in the final blow. "If there were jobs, my brothers would have found jobs here as well."

That sent my mother over the edge.

"Stop including your brothers, for God's sake! They are men! You are a woman, Nesilhan!" she screamed.

You're a woman. Woman. Woman. 

I hated this word. Hated it more than anything.

I hated being a woman because of her. Because every time she said it, it wasn't just a fact—it was a prison sentence. It was a reason, an excuse, a limitation, a shackle wrapped so tightly around me that I could barely breathe.

She never said it to my brothers. Never once did she tell them, "You are a man!" as if that alone was an argument, a justification for why they couldn't, shouldn't, or wouldn't do something. No, for them, being men was freedom. For me, being a woman was a burden.

She had defended them. Time and time again. When they were younger, when they got into trouble, when they made mistakes, she had stood by them, fought for them, and shielded them. But she—she had never done the same for me. She never saw me as someone worth defending. Instead, she let the world pick at me, tear at me, push me down, and told me I should accept it. That I should be the one to bend, to sacrifice, to understand.

My brothers weren't expected to be quiet, obedient, or selfless. They weren't told to shrink themselves to fit into the lives of others. No one ever looked at them and said, "You are a man, so this is your fate."

But me? I had been hearing it since I was old enough to dream.

I gritted my teeth, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. Please, let me out.

I couldn't do this anymore. I refused to let her words keep choking me, keep telling me who I was allowed to be.

I gritted my teeth. "Please, let me out. I will go with Murat," I said, gripping the door handle like it was my lifeline—because it was. 

"Praise God for a moment and calm yourselves," my father tried, his voice weary, as if this conversation exhausted him more than my future did. "We keep coming back to the same topic."

"I can't last with you anymore, Mom," I said, cutting him off, my hands shaking as I unbuckled my seatbelt. "I have tried—tried—to make you understand, to speak to you calmly—"

"Understand?" My mother scoffed. "You know you can't—"

"I can't speak to you in this way," I interrupted sharply, gripping the door handle.

My father slammed the brakes, and the car jerked forward before coming to a hard stop.

"Look, we're all mad at—"

I threw open the door, grabbing my bag in one swift motion. I turned back just once, my voice low and final.

"Don't ever say you're diplomatic and fair, Mom, because you're not. You love forcing your opinions down my throat, convinced they're the only truth. Even your own grandchildren avoid telling you things because of this."

She blinked, stunned, her lips parting as if she had something to say, but no words came out. Maybe for the first time, she was hearing it, really hearing it.

It had started with me, but it didn't end with me. The way she dismissed my thoughts, the way she let her own beliefs bulldoze over anything that didn't align with them—it had stretched far beyond our fights. I had watched it fester and grow, tangling itself into the next generation. Her grandchildren, the ones she showered with gifts, the ones she praised for their achievements, had long learned the truth: gifts were easy, fairness was impossible.

They came to me in whispers, in frustrated sighs, when they had nowhere else to turn. "Why does Grandma always take my brother's side just because he's a boy?" "Why does she say my older brother is right just because he's older, even when he's clearly wrong?" "Why does she make things worse instead of helping?"

She wasn't a bad grandmother. She loved them, spoiled them, made sure they had everything they needed. But when conflict arose—when real issues brewed between them—she fanned the flames instead of putting them out. To her, authority wasn't about wisdom or fairness—it was about age and gender; older meant wiser, and male meant more capable. It didn't matter who was right. It didn't matter if a younger sibling was hurt or if a daughter was more qualified than a son. Her version of justice was rigid, skewed by outdated ideals and unconscious biases she never questioned.

I had spent years cleaning up the mess she didn't even realize she was making. Talking to my nieces and nephews, smoothing out the resentment she left behind. Teaching them that fairness wasn't about who was older or who was male but about who was right. I had done the work she should have done, and she had no idea.

So I looked at her now, at the disbelief flashing across her face, and I wondered—if she couldn't see what she did to me, how could she ever see what she had done to them?

I shut the door before she could say another word.

Murat had already unlocked his car. He didn't ask questions when I slid into the seat, only gave me a quick glance of understanding.

"Will you be staying at my place?" he asked, glancing at me with concern.

I nodded, watching as he pulled past my parents' car, which remained unmoving in the street, its headlights glowing like hollow eyes in the dark.

I didn't turn back.

The moon moved with me, a silent companion in the night. Sometimes, it lurked behind buildings and trees, then peeked through dense clouds—playing hide-and-seek, just like my family. Raising my hopes only to crush them, as if my efforts were stepping stones for them to shatter beneath me. It should be a crime. It felt like a breach of contract, a betrayal worthy of punishment. But instead of justice, I was left with the aftermath—the wreckage of broken trust, the echo of promises unfulfilled.

I rolled down the window, letting the wind rush in. It curled around my face, pressing against my temple as if patting me in silent reassurance. My heart was still pounding, a heavy drum against my ribs, from the words I had finally spoken. From standing my ground. From facing my mother, not with silence, not with tears, but with the full weight of everything I had carried for years.

I had always spoken—even when my voice wavered, even when my throat burned, even when my words tumbled out between stutters and bile. I had always fought for my right to be heard. But this time… this time, there was no stutter, no bile clawing its way up my throat, and no tears threatening to spill. This time, I stood firm. 

A progress.

I reached up and patted my left shoulder, grounding myself. You were brave. You still are.

Right on cue, the wind curled around me again, pressing against my shoulder in the same spot. I smiled, letting it be my answer, my quiet applause. My hair whipped against my face, but I didn't brush it away. I let the wind carry the last remnants of that battle away, out into the night, where they could no longer reach me.

Murat turned up the volume, and the soft melody of Life Is for Living by Coldplay poured into the car.

"I counted up my demons…

Saw there was one for every day…"

I exhaled slowly, sinking into the music. Wasn't that the truth? Every day, a different demon, a different battle, a different weight pressing down on my chest. The song felt like it had reached into me and pulled out the exhaustion I could never quite put into words.

"With the good ones on my shoulder,

I drove the other ones away…"

I let the wind rush in, whipping my hair, my fingers tapping against my knee. It felt like a promise, like a quiet reassurance that I wasn't just fighting—I was winning, even if it didn't feel like it yet.

And then the part that made something ache deep inside me:

"So if you ever feel neglected,

And if you think all is lost,

I'll be counting up my demons, yeah,

Hoping everything's not lost…"

My throat tightened. God, I had felt lost so many times—fighting to be heard and fighting to be seen. But maybe—just maybe—everything wasn't lost. Maybe I was finally breaking free.

_______

The cold night air wrapped around me as I stepped out of the car, my arms instinctively tightening around my cardigan. The weight in my chest hadn't lifted, only settled deeper, like stones sinking to the ocean floor. I was quiet, my mind still echoing with the song, with the words I had spoken, with the silence that followed.

Murat's wife stood outside the house, hugging herself against the night breeze. Her eyes softened with concern the moment she saw me, but she didn't ask, didn't push. She only glanced at Murat, who gave a small shake of his head—silent understanding passing between them. I didn't have the strength to explain.

I hugged her, a brief, tired embrace. "Are the kids awake?" I asked, my voice thinner than I intended.

"Yes," she murmured. "They're in their rooms."

My throat tightened. "Do I get them to sleep?"

Her hands clasped mine, almost pleading. "Please. Their mood changed ever since you left. They won't sleep unless you're with them."

I smiled, faint but genuine, as I toed off my shoes at the doorway. "I'll make them sleep."

The house smelled of warmth, of something familiar—fabric softener, a hint of lavender, home. I placed my shoes into the cabinet and padded quietly to their rooms.

The moment I pushed open the door, they squealed, small feet pattering against the wooden floor as they ran into my arms. Their tiny hands gripped onto me tightly, their warmth pressing into my skin, as if they somehow knew—somehow felt the sadness I had tried so hard to swallow.

I held them close before gesturing toward their beds, pulling the door shut behind me. They clambered onto their blankets, still buzzing with excitement, tugging at my long skirt.

"Aunt Nes, look!" they said, pushing their coloring books toward me with bright, eager eyes.

The page had a question printed on top in playful, bold letters: "Draw your favorite hero!"

The first drawing showed a stick figure—long hair drawn messily—shaking hands with Iron Man. The other had a figure standing beside a robot, a tiny wrench clutched in its stick-fingered hand.

Underneath, in uneven but determined handwriting, they had written: "I want to be like Aunt Nes."

Something caught in my throat. I stared at the words, at the wobbly drawings, at their expectant faces.

"Why me?" I whispered.

They beamed. "Because you're so smart and amazing!"

"You always save us!"

"You're better than Superman!"

I let out a soft breath—a mix of a laugh and something dangerously close to tears.

My hands brushed against the pages, their little fingers latching onto mine. The storm inside me didn't calm, but for the first time that night, I felt something warm push back against the cold.

Maybe I wasn't a hero. Maybe I was just a woman trying to survive. But in their eyes, I was something more.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

However, looking at the drawings, the pages trembled slightly in my hands—not from the weight of paper but from something heavier: Guilt.

Not for what I had done to save myself—but for the cracks I had left behind: for the strain on my parents and my brothers—the silent wars that festered between them and my aunts and uncle's wife. Could there have been another way? A softer way? One that didn't turn family into foes?

I swallowed, my fingers tracing the uneven letters scrawled beneath the drawings. "I want to be like Aunt Nes."

Maybe this—this was the best way.

Sometimes a hero had to wear a villain's mask before the world saw them for what they truly were. Before the truth stood tall, undeniable.

I wasn't a bad person. I had never wanted to be.

All my life, I had been the obedient one, the quiet one, the girl who listened, who complied, who smothered her own fire to keep the peace. I had been kind, I had been soft. I never wanted to know what it felt like to be cruel. But this time, I couldn't. This time, kindness meant surrender, and surrender meant destruction.

Maybe this was my sin. Maybe God saw my actions and weighed them against my intentions. But wasn't marriage supposed to be with consent? In faith, in love, in choice? Not in force, not in silence, not in fear.

I wasn't a bad person.

But to fight their evilness, I had to meet them at their own battlefield. And if I played the villain in their story, so be it. It had always been bound to happen—whether today or tomorrow.

A soft giggle broke my thoughts.

I blinked down at the wide, expectant eyes staring up at me, full of nothing but admiration, nothing but warmth.

I leaned in and pressed soft kisses on their foreheads, feeling their tiny hands tangle in my sleeves.

"Who wants to be tickled?" I whispered.

They shrieked before I even touched them, wriggling away as I attacked their sides, laughter spilling through the room like scattered pearls.

Maybe I had sinned.

Maybe I had been cruel.

But tonight, holding these children, hearing their untainted joy—I dared to believe, just for a moment, that maybe … God wouldn't punish me for doing my best to escape.