CHAPTER 5 the mask she wears

Morning came too soon again.

Emma stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her blouse. Her eyes paused at the faint scar on her neck — a childhood injury, but somehow, it felt like a perfect metaphor. Small. Hidden. Forgotten by others. But she always knew it was there.

Lia was still asleep on the couch, curled up like a cat beneath the old brown blanket. Emma had tried to find a proper bed for her daughter, but priorities always fought for space — food, rent, school fees, medicine. Love was there, plenty of it, but comfort? That came in rationed moments.

By 6:30 AM, Emma had swept the house, prepared porridge, ironed her uniform, and packed a small lunch for Lia. She didn't complain. She didn't have time to. That's the thing about women like Emma — their grief never screams. It folds into the rhythm of life.

At work, things were no better. Her boss, Mr. Barasa, wore aftershave too strong and glances too long. He always found a reason to be near her — asking for reports he'd already received, standing too close at the printer, lingering by her desk during lunch.

She hated the way he said her name.

Her female colleagues whispered behind her back. She had heard the stories — that she had "a sugar daddy," or was "too proud to make friends." No one ever bothered to ask why she kept to herself. No one cared to know about Lia. Or the sleepless nights. Or the silent tears she shed while washing laundry at midnight.

But there was one person — Ruth, the cleaner — an older woman with sad eyes and rough hands. She sometimes left a cup of tea on Emma's desk without a word. Sometimes they shared glances that said, "I see you." That was enough.

One afternoon, as Emma walked home with Lia asleep on her back, wrapped in a faded kitenge, she passed by a group of schoolgirls laughing loudly. She paused. For a split second, she saw her younger self among them. Laughing. Dreaming. Believing.

Then it was gone.

Back in the house, she found a letter slipped under her door. Eviction warning. Two months behind. Her hands trembled as she folded it and put it away. She couldn't cry. Lia was watching, eyes wide, silently reading her mother's face.

"I'm strong," Emma whispered to no one in particular. "I'm strong."

But the truth?

She was tired of being strong.

To be continued....