The morning sun cast a harsh glow over the small house where Zaria lived. But warmth was a stranger in that home now. After her father's brief visit and quick departure back to the distant worksite, the burden on Zaria grew heavier than ever.
Without the promise of school to brighten her days, Zaria's life had transformed into an endless cycle of chores and exhaustion. At just twelve years old, she no longer felt like a child. The innocence of childhood was slipping away with every callous word and every heavy task she was forced to endure.
From the moment she woke, the day was a blur of work. She rose before dawn, long before the birds began their morning songs. The sharp chill of the early air bit at her skin as she slipped outside to start the fire for cooking. The kitchen, a small lean-to at the back of the house, was Zaria's domain now—though it felt more like a prison.
"Get those dishes done, and hurry," Sarah's voice barked from inside, brittle and cold.
Zaria's hands moved mechanically, scrubbing pots and pans that seemed to have no end. The water was cold, and the soap barely lathered on the grease from the day before. Her fingers cracked and peeled from the harsh work.
Breakfast was scant—a thin porridge that barely filled her stomach, and often she was left with nothing once her stepsisters had eaten.
Mary Florence and Claire Rina, Zaria's stepsisters, went off to their expensive private school, their laughter echoing out the front door as they left, leaving Zaria behind in silence.
"Don't think of them," Sarah would say, glaring at her as if the very thought was a crime. "You're not them. You never will be."
Zaria knew she was not welcome at school anymore. Her father's words had sealed that fate. The teacher's offer of help was forgotten, and any hope for a brighter future seemed to have died overnight.
The list of chores was endless. She swept floors, washed clothes, carried heavy water buckets from the well, and cooked every meal with whatever little food Sarah grudgingly provided.
"More wood for the fire," Sarah demanded one afternoon, tossing a small bundle of sticks toward Zaria. "And don't take long this time."
Zaria picked up the sticks and headed toward the yard. The sun beat down mercilessly, and sweat soaked her thin dress. She felt her muscles ache, her back stiffen. She was tired. So very tired.
But rest was a luxury she could not afford.
One day, as she scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees, Claire Rina came in, sneering.
"Look at you," Claire mocked. "Acting like you're a servant. You do everything for them, and they still treat you like you don't matter."
Zaria said nothing. What was the point? Speaking only seemed to invite punishment.
She remembered how Sarah had beaten her last week for "wasting water" while washing the clothes. The welts still stung.
Nights were the hardest. After the family had gone to bed, Zaria was expected to clean the kitchen and prepare water for the next day. Often, she went to sleep hungry, stomach twisting in knots.
One evening, she found a single loaf of bread hidden behind a sack in the kitchen. She nibbled on it quietly, careful not to be caught.
"Stop eating my food!" Sarah's voice cut through the silence like a whip. "You'll rot your teeth."
Zaria dropped the bread and swallowed her tears.
Her stepsisters mocked her mercilessly, calling her names and telling tales to Sarah about her supposed laziness or mischief, none of which was true.
At twelve years old, Zaria was forced to do the work of someone twice her age. She cleaned, cooked, carried water, and looked after the house while her mother and sisters relaxed. The weight of the world rested on her small shoulders, bending her spirit.
Her back ached from bending over laundry tubs. Her hands were cracked and raw from scrubbing and washing. Her feet were blistered from endless chores.
Yet, no one seemed to notice.
"Stop crying," Sarah said one day, catching Zaria wiping away tears behind her back. "You're not a baby."
Zaria looked down, ashamed that she had let herself show weakness.
Her school books gathered dust in a corner of the house, unused and forgotten. The dreams they once held—the dreams of reading stories, learning new things, and maybe, just maybe, escaping—were fading fast.
But even as the days dragged on, a small fire still burned inside her. A spark of hope, fragile and flickering.
Sometimes, when the house was quiet and the moon shone bright, Zaria would sit by the window and stare at the stars. She imagined a life where she could learn and laugh, where no one told her she was worthless.
She imagined a life where she was free.
But those nights were few and far between.
For now, the reality was harsh.
Her childhood was gone.
In its place was a daily battle for survival—a fight against neglect, cruelty, and the coldness of those who should have cared for her most.
Zaria wiped the sweat from her brow and took a deep breath.
She was small.
She was tired.
But she was not broken.
And one day, she would prove it.