Growing up, my parents didn’t really beat us with cane or hands. They had their own way of disciplining us, it was always quiet but heavy. Sometimes, you would even prefer they shouted or beat you, because what they did instead used to sink deeper.
I remember one day I messed up.
I followed a friend out without telling my parents. In my mind, I had planned it well, I would go and come back early so nobody would notice. But things didn’t go as planned.
The place we went to was farther than I was told, but since I was already there, I stayed. I enjoyed the party, lost track of time, and before I knew it, it was already around 10 pm. That was when reality hit.
The area wasn’t safe or easy to move around at that time. For a moment, fear started creeping in. We stood there for a while before we finally found a rider who agreed to take us home.
When I got home, my heart was already racing. I knew I was in trouble.
My mother called me. I went to her, ready for anything. When she asked where I had been, I told her the truth. I had already prepared myself for shouting or even beating. But she didn’t do any of that.
She just looked at me.
Then she spoke in a calm, low way, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
But the words she said hit harder than anything else. I deserved good beatings but she just chose to shout quietly and i felt everything at once; guilt, regret, shame.
At that moment, I realized that not all shouting is loud, sometimes, silence says it all.
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