Lila’s mother had just admitted that her daughter never really talked about her life. Her father did not seem to know much either. From surface-level small talk to the deepest roots of intimacy, their relationship with Lila could have meant everything or nothing at all.

But was there a trigger? Or did this kind of distance simply happen in ordinary, everyday families like theirs inevitably?

“You know who to contact for Lila, right?" Her father asked. His voice measured, eyes avoiding his wife's.

“I don’t... I don’t think so.” Her mother’s hands trembled as she replied, her voice brittled. Shock clung to her like frost.

“I don’t know anyone either. Didn’t she always say she went out with friends? Don’t you know anyone from her work?”

Grief was beginning to evolve into worry, into frustration, into confusion. A knot of emotion was forming between them.

“I can try to reach out to a few of her friends." The mother offered, but unsure.

But little do they know, Lila's friends and her job are not at all what they had been aware of.

For years, Lila told her father she worked a respectable corporate job. It was a performance scripted to earn his approval. He had always wanted her to become a public servant — secure and socially esteemed. But that had never been her path.

To her father, Lila was a clerk at a private school nearby. The school existed, yes, but Lila had never stepped foot inside as an employee. And her father had never thought to verify it.

“There must be someone at the school we can notify." He said casually.

“What if we call our relatives first?" Her mother asked, trying to delay the realization. “We can talk to her colleagues later.”

“Shouldn’t we prioritize her workplace? You talk to her friends. I’ll handle the family.”

Her mother could only take a slow breather, “Oh, God.” 

Despite being the more attentive parent, Lila’s mother had always taken a back seat. Her submissive nature never stood a chance against her husband’s dominance.

She was, however, the one to be told that Lila had been freelancing in customer service. That revelation sparked the only real argument she had ever had with her husband as an attempt to defend the legitimacy of remote work. She supported her daughter, believing that any honest job was worth respect. But they could never speak openly about it. Lila’s father could not agree to her having any career outside his rigid definition of success.

So, how did Lila convince him otherwise?

She played the role, committed to the bit. Every single one of it. Flawlessly.

Every morning, she woke up early and left the house on time, pretending to head to the imaginary job at school. In truth, her work did not begin until nine, sometimes later. She had told her mother that she rented a co-working space thirty minutes away from home. And every day, she went there, sticking to the scene with the kind of discipline that masked how exhausting it truly was.

Her mother did not know whom to contact. She did not know anyone from Lila’s line of work. There were still a few childhood friends in the neighborhood, but most had left for bigger cities. Bangkok, Pattaya, you name it. Only Lila had stayed. Only Lila had remained with her overbearing parents, playing the part of the obedient only daughter who never dared to leave.

*

Lila was born to older parents after two miscarriages. The doctor called her their miracle, expensive child. Her father, a clinic nurse in the heart of Buriram. Her mother, once an accountant at a local bank.

That sense of preciousness slowly turned into a burden. She was never taught how to want things for herself. She got way too used to having people’s expectations on her. It seemed like there was no other way than being obliged to show respect. Being someone’s child, for being watched, expected, and pressured, was already too much.

With both parents working, Lila was raised by a pair of nannies. One to care for her, one to care for the house. Her upbringing might have looked ideal from the outside, but money could never buy presence. One night, when her nanny left for another job, Lila cried and begged to go with her. Her parents were home, but she chose the one person who had been there for her.

As told by the nanny, someday, when she understood enough, she banged on the front window and screamed to be let go one night.

“Take me, nan!” Lila wriggled and wept.

“Your parents are here! Why would you even want to be outside?” Her father grabbed her arms to try to make her stay still. 

Her nanny could only watch from afar and signaled her to stay inside. After all, there was nothing she could do with her power to calm down a young one not of her own, asking to go with her.

Lila attended elite private schools, far beyond what most families in the area could afford. At age five, as they passed a school building, she pointed and declared from her unconscious mind as if she had a plan, “That’s my school!”

Her mother took it as fate. Her father took it as an acceptable option. It was either that or the seminary.

In elementary school, Lila was a star for best handwriting, top of her class. She showed pure interest in socializing with the peers and teachers, with only a tip of ambition to be a bright student who did well. But everything shifted in high school.

She was forced into a science track despite her passion for history, literature, and writing. She had tried to advocate for herself. Her father, however, did not negotiate. As a man of medicine, he expected his daughter to follow suit. Her mother did not really care.

Whether a necessity or a supposed flow, school uniforms and innocence slowly faded away with the time to start off college year, besides the insatiable appetite to seek knowledge itself, and the want to satisfy the palate to savor success.

Just like a thriving ecosystem, graduating schools and embarking on a college journey was also a part of Lila’s life, and she saw it as a profound act of rewilding her future. For decades, her educational landscape had always been curated, both by her parents and the school systems, much like a manicured greenery. She had to follow a set of curriculum, adhered to some established schemes, and often molded her branch only to grow into a fitted environment.

And much like a monoculture yard with its struggle to yield more diversity, stepping into college would broaden her and fulfill her potential to finally have some roots on her own. With new flowers, it could help her to find footing easier in passions, hoping the nectar attracted, and contributed to brighter opportunities. 

So she buzzed ecstatic ideas to foster new dreams, with new spirits.

But apparently, remaking a prewritten destiny was not done overnight. Not only did she experiment with shifting pathways, Lila altered her fate.

She wanted to put the work back into her hands by enrolling in an Arts and Media program, only to make her father stop talking with both her and her mother. To him, any field outside medicine was a waste of time. To Lila, it was the only way forward in regaining control of her future. After all, it was her and this decision that she would have to spend the rest of her life with.

Even then, she excelled.

Lila explored and truly immersed. She took on big projects and leveled up her game to follow the college rhythm, to all the vast perspectives, with her unique way of breeding growth. She graduated cum laude, ranked fifth in her faculty. She invited her father to her graduation. He came reluctantly, but her friends said they saw him tear up as she walked the stage. Lila chose to see it as a brief surrender. A moment of pride, or defeat, most likely.

It had never been easy. He had refused to pay for her tuition throughout the journey. Lila, then, decided to willingly take part-time jobs. Her mother supported her with whatever she could spare. Lila had once claimed she would pursue a master’s degree, aiming for a future as a lecturer or researcher. But toward the end of her college years, her perspective shifted. She saw opportunities in media, in startups, in digital work as modernity started to kick in.

She interned in sales, in content creation, and production house. Each role was practical and real, but wild within her control. But once again, her father’s disapproval came crashing down. He called it a ruckus. He called it nonsense.

She began to wonder. Whose life am I living? Do I even have one?

And so came the compromise as a survival. Not with her father, not even with her mother. But with herself. To keep the peace, she chose to lie. She began editing her life into something palatable. A life that fit their expectations, and one that she could try to fit in. And in doing so, she lost pieces of herself, bit by bit.

In the end, nothing seems to add up. Not to them. Not to her.

*

Lila’s mother was looking through the room. It was oddly neat. Too neat for someone who always had many things at once as a routine.

Lila herself had been known as a clean person. She never left any of her belongings in sight, displayed like a museum. Whenever she came back from a moment out, she would return everything to its place again. Even before she left her house, she made sure that whatever she was taking out, she had put it back as a sense to have everything feel to the designated places. She had this thought that, if someday an emergency occurred, she would know exactly what to reach and where she stored them. So nothing had ever changed in this small space of hers. A place where she detached from her outside world, even when that meant only one step into the living room at home. She felt safe and herself there.

Unlike her daughter, Lila’s mother was the type to stack stuff. Both Lila and her even started to realize that she might possess a tendency to collect things in large amounts, although they did not know what for. Notes in paper receipts, unread books about healthy lifestyle, plastic containers, and fabrics to make clothes from. Only, they were never made use of.

Actually, there are two ways to see this. One man’s hoarding is another person’s “collecting”, and “not throwing random things away”. For her mother’s case, it is “being grateful for every belonging”.

When every decent explanation has been given to normalize why someone could develop an unprecedented interest in piling up everything, Lila tried to look into it with nonjudgmentally, with a large caveat that there were, or would come times, where a proportion vanishing and being taken from them before them fighting for it, they would still have back-ups. So she archives newspapers until they block the window view, or keeps the cupboards with squeaking hinges in the kitchen, just in case they are somehow worthy when she looks again.

It all came down to a pattern of how many options of life were served to them. Lila liked minimalism because she could and had the option to do so in the first place. Her mother lived extravagantly by choice once she managed to earn enough ability to escape poverty. Lila always swore by the efficiency of a capsule wardrobe and tidy look. Her mother’s state of mind was to have something ready before it was needed, but nothing ever happened. She used to live in utter poorness when she had to live below her means. On the contrary, Lila seemed to have a decent life, or just enough to support her life without shortage.

“Where is the suitcase?” Lila’s mother asked herself why she could not find that one thing too large to be missed during the search.

The suitcase was not the most prominent clue to Lila’s passing, nor did it have a link to any of the recent life events, but it could be a sufficient variable. 

One day, when the two went shopping, Lila deliberately made a purchase of a medium-checked luggage even though there was no clear plan at that time of travelling. Hell, where would she even go?

As time went by with no evident destination to fly to, the suitcase just sat there in her room, still wrapped in its plastic and its price tag not being removed. It was clear that Lila never planned to use it for a vacation, but she still kept it on her reach for a reason no one knew.

Within one hour, there was nothing peculiar to find after all. It felt as if there was, indeed, something else that could help her mother bring everything to light, but it was a relief, too, that everything stayed in place. That, or maybe it was Lila who was so clever in hiding things, most importantly, her feelings. Even now, her mother still could not get a glimpse of Lila’s reality.

There were all these things happening, all at once, all colliding, and how she put the pillows on her bed was still the same. She only had her stationeries and a clock on her desk. Her closet was not messy. But there were indeed notebooks that did not have any writings in them, some money piled into a certain distributed amount, and a backpack with her working laptop and a set of smaller bags inside. It had the amenities of someone who had to be on the go, but why would Lila ever need that if she had a home to always run to?

Her mother tried to access Lila’s mobile. An iPhone with a default lock screen and a pattern to unlock it. Classic, and she let out a deep breath as she could never make it work with her little to no hands-on technology.

Lila’s mother clung to the story she had already been told. She worked freelance at a rented co-working space, so it was normal to have a bag full of her belongings to keep close whenever she was going somewhere. 

The cupboard was still full of Lila’s clothes, though some were indeed missing. She remembered that Lila loved her favorite black-and-white striped tee with light-washed blue jeans. Lila would possibly give it away when she grew out of her interest in wearing them, as she also liked to donate unused clothes, or anything that she no longer found joy in using at a certain point. But would that mean something?

She started to notice that the number of outfits that Lila regularly had was not there, and so were her personal hygiene and skincare products. More bags were not visible, and by a glance, her possessions were even much less, on top of her preference to have lighter everything to begin with. 

With everything that went missing, it would take some time and proper help. She did not have the ability to imagine any possibilities of Lila’s likelihood to move things away. And with all the effort, she could only wonder why she did not notice when and how it had taken place. 

All this time, her daughter lay in her bed, still under the same roof with her; she should have been more attentive. She knew her last thoughts traveled, but she just wished to hold her daughter’s hand and promised her one more time that she would be okay wherever she left. Lila’s mother started to sob again after calming down earlier. She could not comprehend what had happened with Lila that she had not realized.

Yesterday, Lila told her that she went to work, just like usual. And last night, she was sleeping in her bed. The only difference was that this morning, she did not depart from home, nor would she come back to do it all again.

*

Lila’s funeral is held at the Butterfly Mourning Advocacy Centre. Her parents finally distribute the news to relatives and neighbors as the first step taken to finally embrace the truth.

An aunt from her father’s side, whom Lila was always hesitant to get closer to, arrived there quite early, as soon as she could.

“Have you told the workplace?” She jumps in to intervene with Lila's mother.

“If there is no one to call, I’ll go to the school myself! How could you not know any of Lila’s friends when you talk to each other all the time?” Her father shows his true impatient nature little by little. 

Understandably, people get angry when bad things happen to them. They are angry at reality, with God, or with themselves. For the case of Lila’s father, he will always be mad at anything he had no power over, rather than making peace with the fact that it is his response he should have mastered.  

“I’m going to the school. You can handle all of this, right? Of course! You are good with people.” 

After a long time, Lila’s mother finally strikes back at her husband. In all chances that she will still be aware of his unfairness, their daughter's funeral should not have been one of them.

Lila and her mother had always thought that the paternal figure in their family needed to be more responsible. Even though the certain issues, religiousness and security, were checked off, there were still a lot of things to possess in the presence of a good father and husband. He has always been a people’s person, but never to his family. 

Lila’s father was half American and half Asian, but originally from the town, while her mother was from Texas. They met as she moved to Buriram and thus resumed married life there. He knew her as a friend of a friend. When he heard that she would rather make a donation to the orphanage to celebrate her birthday, he was head over heels for her. Life went on until he met her big family for a blessing. The rest was history.

It was very likely for Lila’s father to spend a lot on people of his own. Some other fathers from where he was, who could not make enough, but wanted their kids to start a business. Some brown-noser who did not possess a fixed job, but did anything but threw out compliments to him, just so that they would be treated with a decent sum.

Sounds like a generous man? Lila could only wish he was more like a father to her. 

She had not been allowed to taste life on her own since she was little. Anytime she got sick with a mild fever, he would go ballistic. After all those years, she knew that he only did it out of frustration and because he was worried and did not want anything bad to happen to her. She just hoped that he could have been caring, rather than overly protective.

Lila used to think that it was forbidden to eat chocolate, drink soda, and go to the fast food chains because her father said no with no adjustment, or no talking about how it made sense. She would sneak around to have some, or the nannies helped her to hide the traces once her father got home. All that because her father told her not to forcibly, and she was terrified that he would find out she misbehaved. 

A lot of people grew up without a dad. She realized that she could have been more thankful herself that she still got one, but Lila herself survived a fatherless figure thus far.

It may not be the physical scar that he left her. The abuse through verbal discouragements and dismissals wounded her heart. There, still, was one visible consequence, that Lila had to bear for the rest of her life, while her father did not have anything.

She had trouble with her vision when she was around nine. A regressive combination between excessive reading from studying, and bad distancing with the television, started to make her lose sight at a relatively early age. She would never have the courage to even wonder how to ask for a pair of glasses or contacts. She did not have it in her mind whether to tell her parents that she needed help in the first place. So she kept it all for herself, until the condition got worse, and the only way out temporarily was to ask her friends at school to help write the materials for her because she could not see from afar. 

One friend of hers might or might not partake in the revelation when he told his mom, and his mom would nudge Lila’s mother about her habit of squinting so hard, or not being able to see from her own eyes clearly, even when at a distance of a normal person would have the ability to.

There was finally a case where, someday, Lila got an infected eye from the pollution that should have been taken care of medically.

It was truly a rare privilege for one to never have to put the chin on a machine to see a red hot air balloon, or a countryside house with a red roof, from a digital slideshow while the doctor did the examination. The autorefractor. The Snellen chart with random letters which size is progressively smaller to the bottom? Lila was never fond of it. She thought she might as well have memorized them instead before going to have her eyes checked, just to help her pass the test.

The not-so-friendly, elderly lady doctor said that Lila was practically blind at that time. She actually could not see without help from the uncool, coke-bottle glasses that were available at the optics. Out went the truth, then. It felt almost like a life-or-death situation for her. She knew her father would get mad. She knew that she would be outmatched.

Right. Things should not have been this scary for a kid to let their parents find out about this kind of natural event. Things were different with Lila as it was one of the realities she had tried to bury after a long time, if only her father were a sort of calmer.

He made it clear to everyone that he never wanted his daughter to wear glasses. Probably, and any other kind of medical assistance that showed flaws in her existence. He wanted her to be as perfect as she was born, even when things happened while she was growing up. Life happened. Him, figuring out that her vision was not as best, was also a death sentence to him. It showed defeat.

Her mother always said that it was better to get scolded once and for all, rather than to delay the effect, and the bad thing had taken its place permanently. Back then, why did it never feel safe for Lila to even come to her to begin with?

Instead of starting it off with thin, regular glasses, Lila had to wear a pair of chunky concave lenses for her myopia, also with frames not being fashionable-looking for her face because she got to only choose from the limited range that covered the thickness.

Once she got home with the news, at times later, her father would examine the glasses just to have a double-take if really his daughter had to be in such a circumstance. It was never comfortable for Lila, the most. Had she always had the courage and safe space to talk, everyone would have a part in preventing it from going too far.

Back at the funeral, her mother wants the world to know the real thing about Lila without getting anyone hurt. Lila used to be an expressive and sweet child, but she became a bit more not open and introverted. She now just sits there in her car, not knowing what to do or where to go. She has the reminiscence of how she would text her where she was, so she could pick her up, even though Lila would not likely reply to her either.

One night, Lila sneaking out and did not go home straight after work was to get back only one hour past the curfew at ten. Of course, her mother was the one sent out to figure out her wherebeing, though she had no clue herself.

She would drive around the town aimlessly to the point that she thought she had enough time to spare. Deep down, she knew she wanted herself to offer Lila a bit of freedom they both had never tasted. Her mother then texted her, “Where should I go to meet you?”, to no response. But that moment, she believed that Lila would still peep her message, to notice that her mother was reaching out. 

What about now?

“Oh, honey. What should I do now? Where should I go first?” Lila’s mother can only spare a heavy breath.

All of the sudden, a thought of a pair of friends whom Lila once told about spending some time with, Siree and Ploy, comes to her mind. She goes straight to their homes respectively and lets out the story. Luckily, the scene does not get out of hand, and each is prepared to pay the last respect to Lila.

Blessed be Lila, and the treasure she left in the heart of her friends. Everyone has been really helpful so far. 

As punctual as she has always been, Siree arrives first, then Ploy follows. One by one, they pray for Lila in front of the coffin and head into her parents to greet them. They plan to stay longer at heart because they want to see if they can offer any help, or simply they just want to be with their beloved friend just a little bit longer. To Lila’s father, each one of them said that they are Lila’s friends.

Siree was a best friend Lila met in her college years. She is ambitious and they both share an utmost keenness in the entertainment industry. With Siree on a day out, Lila could speak much more than she ever had with her father in a week. They were very close to say the least.

It was a different story with Ploy. As much as she liked to experience new things through the occasions that life could offer, Lila met her in a casual cake decoration short course. After that, the two were almost inseparable in their free time, and they would go to other makeup classes, flower arrangement workshops, and many other events. What made the friendship fascinating was that they had nothing in common. They just like to embrace freshness. Ploy is a prodigy in technology, while Lila prefers to be taking parts in the creative side. They used to joke that if a person could have each of their brains, to excel in scientific and spatial skills respectively, it would be a perfect miracle. Since it is not as easy, they believed God created their corresponding forms to represent equality and induce them to learn in humans.

Siree’s eyes met Ploy’s, so she decided to walk up to her.

“I recognize you from Lila’s photos. I’m Siree. You are her friend, too, right?”

“Yes. I also knew you as a friend of hers. I’m Ploy.” They shake hands.

They stand closer while just observing around. There are not many people around their age who come. Mostly, they are elderly, and the faces are not familiar. Maybe they are Lila’s family and the friends of her parents.

A scene where Lila’s dad keeps roaming around greeting all the people but them. His face looks stressed out and worn out from the crying, but nothing really affected how he managed the crowd.

His gesture did even seem a bit lordly. He is still a confident man who always has something to talk about. How he had become a model father who taught Lila to be obedient, or how her daughter always tallied with his will about always staying home and close as a dutiful form. Siree and Ploy exchange looks at the sight. They huffed.

Silence lingers a bit before a much-needed conversation between them flows out.

“I don’t dare to talk much with her father. I don’t want to.” Ploy says.

“Me, too. I’ll keep the Lila I know to myself, and not someone who broke her.” Siree speaks indifferently. “Anyway, are you a friend from her work?”

“No, we just met on a hangout. Are you a school friend or a colleague from Nativia?”

Siree squints and frowns. “She’s working at Nativia?”

“Oh, that’s… what I know. I, I don’t quite keep up because I think she keeps on changing jobs or something?” Ploy is taken aback.

“Uhm, I know she was working at Bloom.inc. I remembered she told me that she is interviewing with Nativia, too, but haven’t really heard that she got in there. We haven’t spoken for a while, though, so I’m not sure either.”

Poor Lila. She did not know whom to tell about anything, nor did she have the trust in anyone to accept her evolving self as a starter. One friend knew about the moment she got hyped up about a sports club, and the other one only had the image of her getting fascinated about attending an artist’s exhibition. Her whole way of life is a puzzle. The hardest thing to acknowledge is who holds which piece, or whether Lila handed them the piece herself. 

“Well, I guess what we are aware of Lila is that she would need our help at times like this. No matter the past.” Ploy initiates.

“Right. If you were in touch with her just recently, I think you should handle the people at work. You can try to access her phone and notify her colleagues, right?”

“Yeah, I can do that. So, would you try to reach out to her other friends, then? I still think it’s important to let everyone know.”

“Got it.” Siree concludes firmly.

And, just like that. The news of Lila’s passing was delivered to her childhood buddies, contacts she might or might not have lost along the way within the school years, and teams from her work.

The funeral home is filled with people, and also with flowers. 

Lila’s father kind of expects to receive one from the Madeus Private Education, the prestigious school that almost everybody in town knows, but fictional as a place where Lila went to work. Instead, the ones that keep on coming are from her daughter’s personal connections and a company named Nativia. 

This does not spark that much of a surprise to him, apparently, as he goes on with entertaining the guests. After all, when a child of someone dies or gets married, most people come to pay homage and celebrate the parents. But in the end, Lila still leaves a mark as a good daughter and a friend who modestly tries to be present.

*

How much of someone’s life is constructed from what the others want to see?

Lila’s father tells the narratives of her as a final goodbye. After appreciating everyone who has come to honor her passing, everyone also gets to learn that Lila is a person who loved swimming, hated the rains, and tried making her way through work.

Lila was a quiet kid. She followed the path we laid out for her, and that’s something not everyone can say. She lived within the lines, and I’m happy about her for that.

She was the kind of daughter every parent wishes for. She listened and didn’t ask many questions, and she obeyed. As a youngster who never strayed too far from what I expected, and that, these days, is rare. 

I always told her, "Keep your head down. Don’t cause trouble. Focus on your duties, and things will be fine." And that’s exactly what she did. I always knew where she was, and that gave me peace.

She was home when she needed to be. She gave me only a very few reasons to worry. You could say she understood the importance of family. Of structure. Of doing the right thing.

In a world where so many young people seem lost or rebellious, well, Lila was not like that. She followed the path we set, and she made sure to be responsible. Even when others her age were out chasing nonsense, she made the choice to be here. With us. With me.

It was a blessing, truly, to have a daughter who needed only small to no correcting. Who knew her place in the world and didn’t complicate it with... unnecessary ambition. She may be gone now, but I find comfort in knowing I have let go of any chance to be disappointed at her. 

It’s never easy to be here as a father and speak about a child who’s no longer with us, but I did my best because she would have expected me to. In the end, I suppose Lila was all a father can ask for.

Thank you.

 

Some whispers among the neighbors are faintly heard.

“I once saw her getting back and forth from home to somewhere else with multiple big bags. I don’t think her parents know about it.”

“She almost never leaves the house. If she’s out with the family, her parents do all the talking.”

“I wonder if she did not have food at home because, one afternoon, she went to my stall to buy a full-course meal. What a surprise.”

A youth-looking lady, then, goes up to her father when he finishes with the eulogy.

“My condolences to you and your family. Lila is a good person.” She says while smiling, but her eyes are swollen.

“Appreciate it. Where do I know you from?”

“My bad. I’m Lila’s pilates teacher. I tried to get here when they shared the news in the group.”

“Pilates? Lila never went to such classes!” Her father almost snaps.

She is stunned. “Oh, right. That’s probably why she doesn’t come up so often these days. Apologies, and I’m sorry again for the terrible news.” 

She hurries to join the crowd and helps herself to not crack further.

Her father is back with his wife to clarify the initial thing, the only thing that they have only been able to talk about halfway.

“The nieces and I tried to notify the employer from school, but the HR has no record of her. What does that mean?” Her father asks.

“Don’t worry. I have asked her friends to reach out and all is clear. The company is even nice enough to adjust her employment, and plan to send us the remaining paycheck in the nearest future.” Her mother speaks half heartedly.

“What are you saying? This is what happens when you don’t pay enough attention to raise your own kid well and let her go away with a bunch of irresponsible so-called friends!”

Hearing that, she just walks away and tries to find a more peaceful space. The rising volume and tone of her husband, who has an overly audible voice, destroys the atmosphere of a day that should have been sacred. People turn their heads a bit, but they realize it will not be polite for the deceased family and pity them instead for losing a daughter too soon.

Lila’s mother, then, just sits at the corner that is close enough to Lila’s coffin. She wants to be there and feel the evaporating presence of Lila. She has a blank stare at the room’s wall and just wishes that it is only a nightmare that she could wake up from and make amends with anything for a better life with Lila.

That night when Lila died, the early clues were clear: cold limbs, chappy purple lips, and a founded history of acid reflux. Yes, the medical explanations came quickly, but something about timing and the significance of this and that thing still felt off. With a sense of her skipping her meal continued to feel symbolic.

*

A girl expressing that she had a close, loving relationship with her father reveals more than just familial affection. It signals stability coming from the start of her infancy. A good father does not just affect his daughter’s childhood. He influences her entire framework. A positive father figure should set a standard for how a man should treat her respectfully, and consistently. This foundation prevents her from mistaking cruelty for strength or aloofness for desirability. She will not be drawn to emotionally unavailable or abusive men, nor feel at home in dysfunctional relationships. Instead, she will feel puzzled by mistreatment, not compelled by it.

Such a father also models ordinariness and availability. He does not need to impress or dominate. He is present and human, allowing his daughter to experience love as unglamorous, and free from the longing of idealization. This composes her appreciation to the real-world relationships over romanticized fantasies.

A good father naturally fosters a sense of equality. He looks into her thoughts, treats her as capable, and does not impose anticipation that serves solely his ego. He supports her individuality and lets her grow at her own pace, never burdening her with roles that are not hers to play. In terms of appearance and boundaries, he notices her without objectifying her, offering validation without overstepping. He respects her autonomy and never burdens her with emotional caretaking or inappropriate closeness. This enables her to embrace her full adult identity without shame.

Lila’s father came from a house where love was expressed in orders and silence. His own father, an Indian immigrant to Thailand, a stern man with a soldier’s spine and an iron tone, raised him in the tradition of discipline over affection. There were no gentle mornings or sweet talks, only schedules, performance, and punishment. The old man did not believe in excuses, only in results, and he did not flinch when disappointment needed a voice. That upbringing left its mark to Lila. He behaved by rationalizing this kind of behavior to shape her. A man molded by severity, convinced that hardship was the price of becoming “someone.”

It was this philosophy that Lila’s father clung to, without question, when raising her. He believed in structure the way others believed in faith. He rarely yelled, and he did not have to. His disapproval could fill a room with ice. To him, guidance meant control, and control meant protection. When she veered from the path he had drawn for her, it was not experiencing life for him. It was a rebellion. His instinct was always to blame the world first, then the child, then the mother, and only in rare moments when alone did he let the thought wander that he failed to step as someone who earned the highest respect from anyone he viewed below, but he would never really admit that he, too, could be the root when things went wrong.

Silence could mean everything. It alone is a statement. Lila and her mother had to always bear such treatment from the father when they expected responses and guidance. They were awaiting exchange of views, not expecting a fixed decision that posed as an imprint. Before his logic was accepted and understood by others, he shielded himself with an absence of noise to replace force. As for Lila, when the minds could net help but to always seek for a filling in the silences, according to her own architecture of psyches, it was automatic for her to continue developing notions that the void signify something that she had not done right. 

From early on, Lila was drafted into a legacy that was not hers. Her paternal grandparents, steeped in pride and tradition, insisted the family produce doctors. Real doctors, not nurses, not technicians. Her father had failed them in this ambition, falling short and settling into pharmacy school, a career he never truly embraced. So he passed the unfinished dream onto Lila like a debt. He wanted her to enroll in an acceleration program, pushed her into extra science courses, and told her that becoming a family doctor was a given.

But Lila did not want to dissect cells or memorize diagnostic codes. She wanted to unravel language the way words shifted across borders and danced between dialects. She wanted to learn Arabic, Chinese, and Portuguese. She wanted to know the soul of a culture through its vowels and breath, not its biology. Her resistance baffled him. He could not accept why anyone would refuse the honor of fulfilling a legacy, especially someone raised at his house.

And then there was the matter of language. Her father, proud of his Indian heritage, expected Lila to speak to him exclusively in Hindi. He never taught her it properly, never nurtured it as something to be shared. He simply expected. He saw it not as something she could learn, but as something that should come through her blood. To him, fluency was an obligation, not effort. And when she stumbled over words and defaulted to Thai and English, he took it as disrespect. A failure of culture. A failure of hers.

It came to a head one morning in her early school years. She stepped up for a counting exercise and spoke confidently in Hindi. The teacher blinked, then gently corrected her, “Let’s start using the language everyone is speaking here, dear.” The class laughed. Lila did not. From that day on, she stopped speaking Hindi unless she absolutely had to. It became a language of conflict, not connection.

Lila’s father parented her like that. As a result, he did not hear a lot from Lila anymore, even so when she reached adulthood. She just checked on him every once in a while everyday when they passed by each other at home, and spent some time together coincidently. She did not necessarily hate him, but delving into a well of not having rights on her own does not cultivate love that much.

Yes, poor fathering, by contrast, leaves Lila as a daughter with emotional wounds of feeling unseen, unworthy, and confused of love. Of life. It led her to succumbing to unhealthy images of attachment, and loops of self-doubt. Ultimately, the overwhelming  presence of her father shaped her as a daughter who did not think she deserved love that is mutual, calm, and enduring. The influence of her father gave her a scar unrecognized, but profoundly fortifying her.

Her mother, soft-spoken and fluent in empathy, became her refuge. They spoke the same language of softness freely, and easily. With her mother, words were not tests to pass. They were bridges. And so Lila grew up speaking her father's language only in fragments formally, awkwardly, as if apologizing with every syllable. By adulthood, entire conversations with him had become rare, even when they were in the same room. He chalked it up to distance. But the truth was simpler and sadder. Lila had learned it was easier to stay silent than to keep being pointed out for mistakes she was not brought to this world with.

Lila’s father studied medicine once, but most parts of it. Enough to know what medicines for what sickness and how to read prescriptions, enough to talk like a man who knew the body better than it knew itself. It gave him a certain authority in the family, a confidence that hovered between arrogance and denial. He spoke about symptoms, inflammation, and immunity like a textbook come to life. But knowledge, Lila learned, did not always translate into wisdom. 

Bidding farewell to the year 2019 was not plain sailing.

In early 2020, everyone got to experience the unpredictability of the spike of a virus that was first found in Wuhan, China in the 60s. The Coronavirus, through its breadth and speed, made the world shattered, if not collapsed, as an airborne pathogen with a high level of infectiousness. Those with an autoimmune condition or old age who caught it could suffer severe effects, while this was also deadly for those with existing health and respiratory issues.

It was clear that the number of Covid, what the disease was called, that rapidly spread became the center of attention of virologists and immunologists that time, and was set as a global pandemic not long after being reidentified as a case. Not in a million years would one have guessed such a crisis to humankind other than a new World War breaking. The diagnostic and surveillance team from around the world helped people to beat the impossible, which was to stay inside as much as possible to minimize the threat, against the current state of play in doing day-to-day business to cross-disciplinary political affairs.

Most areas were closed. Only people who worked directly on the Covid were on the ground. People were missing face-to-face interactions, though in the end discovered more ways to reconnect too. Each yearning in secret slowly turned more engaging, and they stayed in touch through suffering and desperation.

When it struck, Lila’s father treated it like noise. Hysteria. A passing cloud over stronger men. He groaned at the hand sanitizers Lila brought into the house. He said he needed to get out, to breathe real air, not like the rest of the world, so he went to the church, to meet his friends, barefaced and shaking hands as if untouched by consequence.

It was not long before he brought the virus home.

The transmissibility of the virus suddenly skyrocketed, and he was the first to fall ill with the shivering, sweating, claiming it was just the heat or a seasonal flu. Lila knew better. Her mother did, too. Lila and her mother had to think twice if they should wear the masks at home, when the symptoms were visible enough for him, just because they were afraid of hurting his feelings. 

One afternoon when he was stony and sick, he asked Lila a favor that was far too much was it not for a regular request.

“Lil, could you please buy for this old man a bag of fruits and spicy soup? I have nothing to feel better. Even your mother couldn't care less to treat this patient with affection.”

The distance when he was talking to Lila was close enough for the virus to spread. All it took for her father, in his logic, was that rather than agreeing to the suggestion for getting tested. He would have snapped. Called it unnecessary and a scam. Said healthy and God-fearing people like them, they did not need to panic. What he did not say, but Lila saw in his eyes, was fear. Fear of doctors, fear of diagnoses, fear of confirming that something real had entered his lungs and set up camp.

Then Lila got sick. And her mother. For all the walls they had built, only to be broken by someone from the very own castle. Lila and her mother had stayed inside, limited their movement, avoided guests, washed everything twice. But his negligence bled into their bodies. And something in Lila cracked.

She did not say anything at first. Usually, Lila would first have high temperature and a runny, or stuffed, nose when it came to having signs for a cough. It was definitely something else as she simply got up one morning, dizzy with a jabbed throat and hoarse voice, and walked herself to a clinic. Days upon hearing the result, and when the prescribed antivirals were sent to her as a patient, he got annoyed as usual. Said she was taking the decision in a rush. That she should not have gone without his approval. It was easier for him to accuse her of disobedience than to admit he was the cause.

When the grey clouds were shed, he then spoke to his friends about the virus. He always mentioned not pointing fingers to anyone to blame. Lila’s father, terrified of being tested, accused her of overreacting when she sought medication. And yet, when recounting the story to friends, he boasted of his resilience, painted himself as a man of strength, tested by soreness, but delivered by faith.

To Lila, it was the clearest revelation. Her father was not a man who protected. He was a man who deflected. Who wore education like armor, but used it only when it served him. His care was conditional, performative. He believed in authority, not accountability. The other big C that he possessed other than Covid, is cowardness. And for the first time, Lila began to see her love for him. Not as something natural, but as something trained. Derived like a bad habit. A script she no longer wanted to recite. 

Lila got no such deliverance.

Stress from the outer world took a physical toll. Her job in customer service required high speed, was full of high pressure, and demanded everything. She pushed herself to handle up to fifty support tickets per hour, her hands trembling as she typed. She raced time and endured ignorant rants from angry clients. She stopped taking breaks, believing rest would slow her down.

The irony was not lost on her. She had run from her father’s perfectionism only to recreate it in her work life. She felt like, whenever she did something that her father told, and he complimented her for, it was transactional and that she was only doing things for the reward. She longed for approval but could not tolerate the awarding system. Every compliment felt like a trap, as if it only confirmed that she was performing for someone else’s satisfaction.

Wasn’t it ironic that Lila did not want to comply with every single thing that her father ordered her to because she did not want to show weakness and compliance? The worse thing was, she hated being someone whom their parents put the burden to be a perfection to, but she chose to dive into the service field where all things work the same. If she has always been the one that supports, then who would support her?

Her manager, Martin, at the first company she worked at. All Is Flux, noticed. In a one-on-one, he gently called out, “You’re working sick, Lila.” He offered her time off. She had earned it. Her numbers were record-breaking. But the exhaustion ran deeper than any holiday could fix.

Then came the visit.

One rainy afternoon, Lila laid in her room with a lingering aftereffect of her stomach ache. Her aunt arrived unannounced, trailed by a well-dressed man. Lila assumed he was a new husband. Later, her mother told her the truth. It was a setup of her father’s and their family’s doing. The man was a civil servant, religious, stable, already a homeowner. Her father saw a ready-made solution to a daughter who would not follow the plan. Lila had been summoned only to serve tea and snacks. The conversations, possibly including an informal wedding agreement, happened in her absence.

She was livid. She was not ready for marriage. She had not lived before being devoted and settled again as someone submissive in another household. She had not even traveled the world. Her life felt restricted, and borrowed. The arrangement was not love. It was plain obedience. And worse, it was a betrayal. Her father never discussed anything about it with her, nor did he ask for her permission to step into a more serious phase in life. He assumed, but when she protested, he exploded then claiming indifference, “Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore,” but he did care enough to manipulate, to push, to spy on her until she cracked again.

The holidays were no escape. Diwali, the one Hindu, Indian families’ religious big day and festival that they were not supposed to miss the celebration of, was devoid of joy. No gifts. No lights. “There will always be next year," Her father said. “And you and your mother create new sins every day.”

Dinner prayers turned into lengthy lectures no one asked or enjoyed listening to, in which he placed himself as the victim, suffering for the misdeeds of his wife and daughter. Her mother, who dared support Lila’s right to choose her future, was scorned. “You’ll both suffer in the end if you turn away from my leads.”

The reason for that was, Lila’s mother did not want her beloved only daughter to experience and suffer the same thing as her from a marriage that is not based on pure love, mutual attraction, and readiness. Especially when the supposed man came from the husband and gis own. That kind of patriarchal figure could only move Lila’s from one hell to another because she will only be told to serve the husband and not to fulfill her dream as a woman. A human.

*

Her mother knew suffering as well. She had grown up poor. One egg shared between five siblings, meat doled out like rationed hope. Her own dreams were hemmed by necessity. She sewed her clothes, learned not to ask for more jewelry, and accepted hand-me-downs. When Lila jumped happily seeing a cute dress at the store, her mother assured her that she could make it on her own for her later. Only, later had become never and Lila would go to school with an unembellished pair of tops and bottoms that her mother tailored from leftover fabrics.

She treated Lila the same way as if she could not let her own daughter outgrow her progress. As if going through hardship was the only thing she knew to mature. Even when she could and had all the resources to give Lila what she wanted, clothes, vacations, entertainment, she would put a limitation on it. She tried to give Lila better from any available pennies, but better came laced with guilt. When Lila’s laptop broke, her mother asked, “Whose money are we using to fix it?” as if kindness had to be worked for.

Food became another battlefield. Her father banned junk food and criticized her choices at Lila’s first stages. When the pantry was empty, and she had no energy left to prepare a meal, Lila often chose hunger. She would be too proud to ask, but could appreciate any help. Her skinny frame became a testament to a home that fed shame more than nourishment. Her eating habits became fractured, her relationship with her body tangled in fake preservation.

Lila’s relationship with food had always been tangled, shaped by scarcity. If she did not buy her own meals, there was often nothing she liked available at home. But when she did spend money on herself, her mother would scoff, reminding her that people like them were not born to indulge. “We did not always have the luxury to enjoy food like that in my household back then," Her mother would say, turning a need into a moral failing. So Lila compromised by splitting one portion across two meals, rationing her appetite like a soldier conserving rations in a war that never seemed to end.

That particular night was no different. Lila had carefully planned her meals for the day which are simple, comforting things she looked forward to. But the rain poured relentlessly, and a sudden blackout brought everything to a halt. Her plans unraveled as no power and no heat meant no food. And in a house where she still lived under the rule of a parent and the presence of a helper, she found herself too drained to fight for basic comfort. So, she went to bed hungry.

No wonder Lila had always been so thin. Even as a child, her wellbeing had been an afterthought. Raised mostly by a nanny who was paid only to keep her alive, not to grow the best version out of her, Lila’s early eating habits were left unchecked. The nanny, dreadful of reprimand, would rather avoid conflict than coax the child into trying something new. So Lila grew up avoiding variety, mistrusting fullness, and treating food as something conditional, never guaranteed.

When she once visited her mother at the office, her mother poked fun in front of coworkers that Lila’s collarbones were practically showing through her blouse. “She’s so skinny," She said, as though it were a curiosity, not a consequence. That comment stayed with Lila and it never faded. It lingered with Lila until the end of her day as a sign that she has only been only a product of her parent’s failure and unachievable standard, not a person raised to flourish, but one taught to shrink, to endure.

*

When finally her father’s vision began to fade due to old age, he finally met his own vulnerability.

A minor eye surgery required them to travel to Chiang Mai. Lila had long planned a trip to Bangkok to see her favorite band. She canceled it without a hush. She grasped the urgency. What she did not fathom was why no one asked her how she felt and dealt with the situation. It was not just the surgery. It was always her asking for permission, and the later disregard and the erasure of the importance of her life for the sake of someone else’s misfortune.

After the surgery, her father declared the recovery a miracle. “I surrendered to God," He told everyone. “I endured without complaint.”

Lila swallowed her frustration on her own. She knew the truth. He masked helplessness with worshipness. He had taken and taken, never given. And now, his redemption story erased her again.

At home, his moods were the dictator of the climate. When pleased, he was loud and boastful. When displeased, he weaponized silence. Lila grew up learning to anticipate storms before they arrived. A frown meant danger. A long pause meant guilt. Silence was punishment, and she never knew what crime she had committed. She could only speculate what she missed because that was the default treatment she always got from making a mistake.

Her mother, trapped too, always choses silence over conflict. When she realized she had been living with a monster who was not finished with himself from the past, she thought it was useless to fight back. “What’s the point?”

She once sent a text to a friend, justifying her action to remain silent because a dog who barks the loudest does not mean the strongest. She believed deep down that she deserved this treatment as a sort of punishment for how unreliable she was when she used to be a daughter of her mother. But she remained, trying to be Lila’s refuge in small ways. They were two survivors under one roof, linked not just by love, but by mutual captivity. She still posed as a listener to the daughter when things got rough because they both were the ones at disadvantage and that they only had each other to survive.

Lila knew the best about the seriousness of not complaining, but she grew accustomed to always stand up against problems, point out what was wrong, and do anything within her capacity to achieve justice.

The need, sometimes not to complain, haunted her because there are a lot of people who grew up with no parents at all. Yet, it was because hers were not much different, she learned this lesson so well that, at particular moments, she wished she had been born to someone else. Her mind went far with a more provocative and peculiar imagination of a parent who is poor, but rich at heart. Love and care always came at price after all, and she paid them with quiet disappointment, staying away to avoid more irritation and letdown.

In the end, Lila’s house was not a home. It was a tightrope, a stage, a tomb. And she was just a girl who wanted to live before being asked to give up anything else.

*

Lila’s mother comes back to her room and the emptiness feels heavier.

Parents’ behaviors cannot not break their children, even a little. And so have their parents have broken them, too, they only pass on the miseries to the later generations.

Wouldn’t it be thinkable to realize that their love for Lila has always come with conditions. Good grades at school, not sneaking at night, following their rules? Lila only felt cared when she behaved like what her parents expected her to.

She never asked for, or played with dolls as a girl. Among the other presents she received throughout her phases in life, she was a pupil who liked board games like Ludo, the one that used strategies to win and challenged her to outdo her opponent.

As a mother, she took part in making this mistake. Had she never told Lila to go, Lila would always stay. It was all to fulfill the prophecy of being born, to repay their kindness and return the honor. No woman was ever engineered to be ready to become a mother, and succeed in playing the role in the first try. In this life, Lila’s mother stuck to what was told, but in another life, she shined. So, please bear with it, mother. It was Lila’s first try, too. 

Family traumas are inherited. Lila had always tried to find the silver lining from all of this, saying to herself that she had the bigger capacity to accept and grow despite it was not her fault her parents treated her like that. It might be their wrongdoing, but it was definitely her responsibility to forgive. She got exceptionally good at excusing coercion.

It does not require her to have a degree in something. Lila knew that her parents' relationships really did determine her. They were broken. Nothing could ever compare to describing the relationship like watering a dead plant. The way her parents love, fight, and compensate, or leave, molded the way she assessed love. It taught her what to chase and expect above anything else. To add on to that, the relationship she saw between her parents also set her tolerance on things. Her self-worth, values, desire to express her feelings, attitude towards obstacles, and managing expectations. 

Her mother was shell-shocked, and did not intend to leave because she agitated for things beyond her control after the departure. She was, at least, familiar with her husband and all the craziness he came with. However, familiarity might feel safer at first than comfort. For Lila, that certainly did not project an ideal point of love. It was settling.

Lila was always afraid of repeating her parents' mistakes, and spending the rest of her life running from them seemed to make more sense. Either way, she was failed by them, and they have marked their fiasco on her. Nevertheless, she almost never threw a lot of tantrums from being prohibited to do things or going places. She grew up to be a good kid in her parents’ worlds. 

That evening was traditionally cold. With the rain pouring on the room’s windows, Lila’s mother goes through her collections once more and she feels reconnected. 

She wonders what to keep Lila typically at ease when the house is thunderous, even on a sunny day. She does not go on for too long when she begins to pick up on things. There are drawings of round patterns, or abstract and tangled shapes. On the contrary, the other pages are filled with endless plain lines with a consistent space between them. 

Why does she never find out about this? Another book on her drawers has its paper folded in two with Lila’s beautiful handwriting on the right side, and a much messier handwriting with the same alphabets and sentences, though she does not recognize them, on the left.

Turned out, Lila has been putting her emotions into graphics and distractions. She has spent some time writing with her left hand when she was originally right-handed. It gave her a source of peacefulness and invited her to stay in the present by focusing on something she could try her best in by her own choice. She felt like Lila sparked for the smallest, often unthinkable things, in a good way.

On each day she went through in a constant hyper-vigilance mode, simultaneously Lila found ways to become a highly efficient avoidant and pursued her own curiosities in this little bubble. As long as it did not bother anyone else, she would be safe in her space, for instance. It encouraged her to be as loud as she needed to be when the world shut her down. 

Lila exuded a sign of defined maturity all along.

She once read somewhere that, no matter how hard it was for someone to get better, they were bound to stay stagnant or keep starting over for worse, as long as they were still surrounded by the environment that hurt us. This hit like home for Lila.

Wounded people, indeed, hurt others, just so that they will not feel alone with the agony. It was a little of Lila against her parents, and a lot of Lila and her parents. So when she saw that hope to be better, she did that.

Her mother forgets her mourning for a while and slides it to a pocket, and wears a jacket of bravery instead to finally get through Lila’s phone. It bleeds through every second she spends on reading the chat between Lila and a series of contacts she named The Pain Relief.

She goes way up to the first communication they had. It was Lila with three different therapists. She was thinking everyone was fine until spilled truth does not guarantee when and how she processes her grief will end. It remains a lonely road for everyone.

*

With the stomach issues she was dealing with, Lila struggled to get enough rest, as it was difficult for her to fall back asleep at night. She had heard that talking to someone could help provide a solution for her constant wakefulness. The first person she reached out to was a psychiatrist.

Lila waited for her psychiatrist to pick up. Their session was scheduled over a video call. It was still the height of the Covid lockdown, and in-person appointments were not an option.

Suddenly, the screen flickered to life.

“Hi! Do you wanna start talking?" The psychiatrist greeted, her voice loud and slightly distorted. The phone was clearly perched somewhere unstable.

Lila blinked. “Are you... driving?”

“Yeah, sorry," The psychiatrist replied, glancing sideways at the screen. “Bit of a rush today.”

“That’s all right,” Lila said, shifting in her seat. “But I can’t see you clearly. The camera’s too low, I think.”

The psychiatrist’s phone sat on her lap, angled up at her chin. Her eyes were fixed on the road, and her voice came out louder than necessary, probably to be heard over the background noise.

“Right, sorry again," She said, half-laughing. “Why don’t you start? I’m listening.”

Lila hesitated, then exhaled. “Okay... well. I’ve been having GERD. Mostly at night. People said I should see a psychiatrist. Not sure if that’s even relevant.”

“Mm. Is it just the GERD, or something else going on too?”

“When it gets bad at night, I can’t sleep. I lie down and it’s like, my stomach burns up to my throat. Not just pins and needles, it’s more like fire. Sometimes I feel nauseous, like my stomach’s full and empty at the same time. And breathing gets hard. I try to ignore it, force myself to sleep, but I usually wake up in discomfort again.”

The psychiatrist nodded slowly, still watching the road. “You should also see a medical doctor.”

“I did. Several times. I’ve been given pills and syrup, and they help a bit, but only if I take them before meals. The sickness comes back randomly, so I thought maybe something else could help. Something that’s not just physical.”

“This is your first session with a psychiatrist?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.” The psychiatrist adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “You know what I’m going to say about conditions like this, right?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

The psychiatrist chuckled softly. “Fair point. Well, it’s often not just about food, or sleep, or anything tangible. Sometimes reflux happens because something buried is trying to come up. Something inside you wants to be seen.”

Lila raised her eyebrows. “Sorry, that... almost sounds supernatural.”

“No, not at all. The brain and the digestive system are closely linked. That’s basic biology. When your head is full, your gut reacts. It’s science, and, in my experience, it’s also personal patterns.”

Lila fell silent, absorbing it.

“Lila, from how you talk," The psychiatrist continued gently, “I get the sense you’re not used to sharing much with people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lila tensed.

“You keep things brief. Especially when it gets sensitive. It feels... restrained. Like you’re telling me just enough to be polite.” The psychiatrist assured her calmly. “So, what’s been on your mind lately? Besides the GERD.”

Lila looked away from the screen. “Not much. Really.”

“Maybe we can start earlier than that. Let’s talk about home. What’s your life like there?”

Lila paused. “I don’t know. General.”

“Can you define ‘general’?”

“It’s just me, my mother, and my father. I’m an only child. When I’m told to do something, I do it. My father mostly runs the household.”

“I see. Do you look up to him?”

Lila blinked. “No. It’s just that... everything seems to revolve around him. I have to consider what works for him before anything else.”

“So, is it about what he says? Or how he behaves? What’s the dynamic like when you two talk?”

Lila gave a short laugh. “We don’t. Not much.”

“Would you call it awkward?”

“Distant," She corrected instantly. “We’ve never been close. ‘Awkward’ still implies someone’s trying. He doesn’t. He is not warm, not lighthearted. Never was.”

“So he doesn’t initiate conversations?”

“No, he dominates them. By the time my mother and I hear about anything, the decision has already been made.”

The psychiatrist nodded slowly, eyes flicking between the road and her patient’s face. “Thanks for sharing that, Lila.”

She leaned slightly closer to the phone. “You first talked about GERD and hoped for a quick solution. Now, I think we’re approaching something more... foundational. Besides maybe skipping breakfast or drinking too much coffee.” Her voice warmed with a soft laugh.

Lila smirked despite herself.

“Do you think the triggers are outside you, Lila?" The psychiatrist asked gently.

“I hope they are. I don’t want to believe they’re... me.”

“It’s usually a mix, dear. The way you steered us into your father says a lot about what’s been weighing you down. I’m not here to judge. I just want to understand.”

She added carefully, “Would it be okay if I asked some direct questions? You can stop me if you’d rather not go there.”

To be frank, Lila would prefer a diagnosis and some pills, less soul-searching, more results, but she went along anyway.

“So," The psychiatrist began again, “when do you think the stomach pain started?”

Lila leaned back. “Probably after I ate something that didn’t sit well. Bread for breakfast, pasta and coffee for lunch, mac and cheese for dinner. The next morning I woke up thinking I was having a heart attack. My chest was tight, burning. The clinic told me it was GERD. But it kept happening, so I thought maybe... I needed stronger meds. Or something to help me sleep.”

The psychiatrist nodded. “And how’s your relationship with your father? Ever fought?”

“That’s quite a jump.”

“It’s the two things you’ve mentioned the most so far. GERD, and your father.”

Lila’s breath grew unsteadily. “We don’t fight. He lectures. If I called it a ‘conversation,’ that would be generous. It’s always him talking. Me listening.”

“Does he get angry?”

“All the time. Not violently, but aggressively. He throws words. He blames. It’s always my mother’s fault or mine.”

“Has he ever hurt you?”

Lila’s voice dropped. “He said once... that he might. He might or might not say that I was supposed to be grateful that he did not throw a first at me when things go wrong. But I never see it as a reality that I should feel lucky for. There is not a proper excuse where a father could slap or punch his daughter even once.”

“That’s not okay. Go on.”

“He makes me feel small. He even says my mother is the reason why I’m not successful, like her presence tainted me somehow.”

“Just the three of you at home?" The psychiatrist asked gently.

“Yeah. And he’s... everywhere. His opinions fill up the whole place.”

“Did you two ever do anything together? Trips, father-daughter time?”

“It just doesn’t work. Even when we watch sports together, something we both enjoy. He eventually turns it into another rant. He’ll pause, then pivot into criticizing me or my mom. I can’t stand it.”

“Did you ever tell him how it made you feel?”

Lila shifted, wrapping her arms around herself. “No. I don’t know how.”

“You can just go and talk to him. Why do you think it's hard?”

Lila’s jaw tightened. “He cheered for my success, yeah, but you don’t know my father. No one has ever lived with him like I do, so when I say it’s hard to reach out, I mean it.”

The psychiatrist let that sit for a moment, then nodded solemnly.

The session ended with her prescribing a low dose of antidepressants and sleeping pills. She explained gently that while the medication might improve mood and rest, the real control would come from Lila herself.

Lila stared at the prescription, unsure. It was her first time. The pills made her drowsy all day, not just at night. The talk and the drugs combined only had left her raw, vulnerable, so she started considering other alternatives.

She, then, went to a psychologist. There was information for a consultation package that was offered by a university. 

“You seem like you can get it all by talking well, don’t you?”

The psychologist was also a middle aged woman. Her appearance looked slightly fresher, but a hundred percent more eccentric than the precedent.

She was large in size. She left her white hair showing, but she would always wear red lipstick. From the get-go, Lila sensed a friendliness in her, or it was just the way she talked smoothly convincing.

“Do I look so?”

“You sound very confident. The way things flow seems so structured, and succinct. I’m guessing that you are also clever in anything else. Did you not think you were very good?

“No. I... I didn't care. I’m not.”

“Would you let me know what you are feeling that way?”

“I think most people just are. When we were pupils at school, it was not really a competition to show how smart you are, so the first ranks and all the achievements you had were not important. My parents were smart because they got jobs that are stable and socially acceptable.”

“And if you chose a different path, that means you are bad at everything?”

“I mean, I’m more on the creative side, but…” Lila shrugged.

“Oh! In that case, why don’t you send me the email of your conclusion of our session today? Make it your own creative channel?”

“Can I write?”

“Of course. Whatever you feel like is the best way you can get it all out.”

“Thank you.”

The session with her quickly turned into something that Lila always looked forward to every once in a while. She had it scheduled at the end of the month, but the psychologist noted that she could have an additional call with her whenever Lila thought it was important.

“What are you seeing?” Lila asked her psychologist as a follow-up on the “task" She previously gave her. “I mean, what is it you are looking for? Can you try to see through me from the writing?”

“I can say you are a gifted writer. That was very good.” She took off her glasses. 

“You see. There are patterns hidden in how someone talks, writes, and acts. I believe you have to know this, but your orderly way of thinking may tell the truth about how you’ve always been conditioned in life.” 

“Now that we are back on that, my mother was actually rather supportive. She was quite adamant about a lot of things, so she didn’t really care about this one. But my father must’ve been the one opposing this career because our idea of greatness is different.”

“How do you know he thinks like that?”

“He always gives me a silent treatment whenever things that I did were not quite up to his standards. And he always stays silent all the time.”

“Do you have any ideas on how he treats other people? Maybe some people from the neighborhood, people from work.”

“My father is actually a nice man to people. He will greet everyone passing by our house when they go jogging, he asks questions to show them he cares. He is friendly, but not to us.”

“That’s not wrong for you to think of that, but let’s try to shift the point of view to the fact that we socialized with other people so much, too. Would it be possible that he also might get picked on outside the house? Not that I’m saying it is okay to let it out on you and your mother, but his anger was not all sourced from your behavior.”

“I guess so, but I don’t think that it’s still fair for my mother and I to be the victim of his mistreatment.” Lila stroke back.

“I agree that it’s not fair. Some people, indeed, need to learn how to give proportional reaction to what’s coming at them. However, from this point on, we can think about letting go of your responsibilities to bottle up your sadness just because your father is feeling sad. Maybe, it was not mainly your fault. Maybe, he had other disagreements with the people he met outside, and you just happened to see him ignoring you and frowning.”

“All right. Okay. Because the other times, when his friends came around and they would play chess together, he would always be spending the rest of his day smiling. And he treated us, and talked to us well. That does make sense when he is quiet. Only the effect might take longer to last.”

“Exactly. So, can we try to do that moving forward?”

“I’ll keep that in mind and try.”

For the first, Lila felt heard and justified for what she had been feeling. And it was like a burden that was put on to her shoulder was lifted by knowing there was a probability for everything crumbling down, that was not all her fault. 

The next, but unfortunately last session with her psychologist, she tried to pick up on more topics in Lila’s life, even though that included one of the most recent things that left her traumatized.

“As beautiful and mature as you are, you must have had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, something like a romantic friend. Kinda gray area.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain that far.”

Lila bluffed. “No. Actually, I do not and have not had a boyfriend.”

“Do you feel better that way or is there a reason?”

“I fell in love with someone once. But it was so back then when I was in junior high. And when my teacher and parents found out, they asked me to stop getting in touch with him. They said it was too early.”

“How would you describe that emotion? Sad?”

“Yeah, I dunno.” Lila felt scrutinized when people tried to get into her love life since she had no stories.

“There's no right or wrong answer about love, Lila. You can tell me your best attempt at the truth, and I’ll accept whatever you feel it is okay to share at this moment.”

“It was just like texting and chatting most of the time. We barely got to the point when I heard he said he loved me. I think my parents went too far in prohibiting me trying out things, even just getting to know the opposite sex. They literally made me cut off all contacts with him, even as a friend. It won’t ever go well to go with someone new if no one was ever good enough for them.” Lila went defensive. 

“You’re not planning to see someone new?”

“Yeah, what for?”

“Would your parents be happy knowing this?”

“Well, they already did something they should’ve not anyway.”

“Can I ask what that is?” The psychologist seemed concerned, but every word coming out of her mouth still eluded carefulness.

“They brought a man home. They think they are doing God’s favor by letting me just live the life that they prepare for me, rather than allowing me to have a chance to try it out on my own.”

Lila whimpered and exhaled shakily. When she stared at the psychologist, she sniffled, too.

“My father kept pushing me to just have an introduction with him, but he had crossed the line. He might have thought of something else without talking to me first because the unknown man was already at our house.” Lila said while sobbing. She wiped her eyes as the tears fell unstoppably.

“Maybe he just wanted to help. But I still want to know what you think about that? How does it make you feel?”

“That’s a straight-up betrayal!” Lila shouted. 

“Were you not able to see he acted like that because he only wanted easier things for you?”

“No!” Lila paused to keep it all together again. “No. He never asked what I wanted with my life. He always came up with a decision that only he thought was best for him. Not me. Never once did he care about what I want to have, and now he shamelessly set me up for a marriage with a man I don’t know for the rest of my life? No, thanks.”

“Okay. Now, would you walk me through your understanding of what is possibly so wrong with that?”

“Can’t we just… let it go?”

“Well, I’m here just trying to understand you. What would you say? Don’t you know that it might turn out good when you give it a try?”  

“Of course not!”

“Why, ‘of course not’?”

“Because… I’ve lived in a family when voices are not heard. I am silenced. You think by scrapping other choices for me to have a relationship, setting me up with a man like that, whom I also believe is the same kind as my father, would fix all this stuff?” Lila shook her head hard. “No.” 

She felt deceived again as she failed to have someone finally stand on her side.

Deep down, she understood that it was the psychologist’s responsibility, too, to bring light out of everything, but since she touched on the part where Lila was hurt the most. She couldn't take it anymore. She just prayed that, for a second, people could have the bravery to put themselves in her shoes. Then they would have realized why she became who she was.

The new psychologist was relatively young, which made her easy to talk to. She spoke casually, occasionally using slang and modern references that made the sessions feel more relatable. Though she asked many probing questions, Lila felt a quiet reassurance that this woman genuinely understood the pressures of corporate life. Whether in small moments or larger struggles, Lila sensed they were speaking the same language. One shaped by shared experiences of workplace stress and professional expectations.

“When I complain, aren't you going to say every job has its own challenge, miss?”

“We are doing this not to jump into conclusions, so let’s take it step by step. Okay?”

At the time, the company Lila worked for, Bloom.inc, offered a complimentary consultation package with partnered psychologists. She moved on, and took advantage of this benefit by signing up for regular sessions, primarily to discuss workplace challenges and her professional development.

“I am concerned about the fact that you think you're underperforming, Lila. Tell me more about it because, for now, what you see and feel are more important to me than what is supposed to be.” 

“This is my second job as a customer support, but the stress has gone out of control. I constantly felt restless, mostly because I kept having a dream about how bad the clients are treating me right now.” Lila sounded soulless.

“I read somewhere that it’s either lack, or excessive sleep that signifies the stress you are having right now. At night, I had to listen to some kind of ASMR audios, or anything just to keep my mind shut from wandering around to think about what I couldn’t do in my job. And on the weekends, when I do not have to wake up for work, I usually get up in the morning, right? Now I can sleep until afternoon and I would feel wretched.”

“What things that affect your perception of not doing things well as a customer support?”

“The clients are always angry. They are rude and ungrateful. There are also indicators when your leader assesses your performance, right? That made me think that they would've liked me better if I replied faster and gave what they asked.”

“Do you think it is important for the clients to like you?”

“I dunno. Maybe? That’s the whole point of this job, no?”

“Do you expect other people to like you, too, outside work?”

“Well, I get the sense that when people admire you for something, that means you have done a great job.”

“Would you consider yourself a perfectionist? Because any of your deeds are measured by how good the results are, and when the people eventually like you for it.”

Lila smirked. “Yeah. Your words.”

“Anyway, I used to have GERD, but now the pain is more manageable. This time, I feel more like that’s not what I am with the clients. I felt panicky even before work time started. In fact, I have tried to study the manuals and learned from everyone. It’s like I never prepared.”

“Searching for perfection is not the worst, Lila, but let’s take a step aside to see everything from a different perspective. From a broader point of view. If you know that you have put up with all you’ve got, not just the work, it’s not always us who can handle the rest. By giving space from giving out effort and expecting a result, you have freed yourself from the overwhelming pressure.”

Through these sessions, Lila learned more than just setting realistic expectations for herself. She began incorporating physical techniques to regulate her emotions. Other than letting calming audio play throughout the night, she discovered that simple, sequential breathing exercises could work wonders in helping her fall asleep peacefully. 

Her psychologist also introduced her to the Butterfly Hug, a grounding technique Lila could turn to whenever she felt anxious or restless. Lila would casually cross and place her palms on her shoulder, as if someone was giving a hug to her. Then, a series of gentle pats would do the magic to ease her up. Gradually, she began learning to ride the emotional waves instead of bracing against the storm, a way of befriending the hurricane within her.

During one particular session, the psychologist gently pointed out a recurring pattern. Lila’s relentless drive for perfection was not just rooted in ambition, but in something deeper, unresolved dynamics within her family. The way she obsessively responded to client demands or over-interpreted her leader’s feedback was less about work and more about an internalized pressure. Lila had been pushing herself without boundaries, fueled by a need that had never been fully acknowledged or met.

With her background in therapeutic intervention, the psychologist encouraged Lila to explore specific art-based therapies. During episodes of anxious overthinking, Lila was invited to draw whatever came to mind. No structure, no expectations. When her thoughts spiraled too fast, she was guided to make a series of simple, repetitive lines to anchor herself in the present moment. 

These quiet practices became a part of her healing ritual. Over time, Lila filled pages with fragmented shapes and restless strokes, blueprints of a chaotic mind trying to mend itself. That was the blueprints of Lila’s chaotic mind, and her effort to overcome it, that her mother finally discovers but not knowing what these images hold of silent struggle and resilience.

Unfortunately, the sessions came to an abrupt end. The last message from the psychologist, confirming the next appointment, went unanswered. Lila never replied.

Still, she had remained open, willing to grasp even the smallest advantage from each session she had attended. In doing so, she acknowledged a truth about herself. She wanted to get better. Despite the emotional wounds left by her parents, despite how fractured she sometimes felt, she kept reaching toward wholeness. The damage had been done, but Lila had learned to stand, even if it meant standing on broken pieces.

Her father, however, remains distant, still unable to grasp who Lila truly was, even as a daughter, let alone as a person. Life is finally showing on his face in more wrinkles, thinning silver hair, and the scowl that seems etched into his features.

As the rain pours heavily that afternoon, Lila’s mother stands in the quiet of their home, holding back the heartache she still does not know how to tame. She vows to begin a journey of her own. She will seek out the truth, piece together Lila’s hidden life through the people who had known her best, even if she was not yet ready for what she might find.