The road home looked smaller.
Not because the trees had shrunk or the buildings had moved, but because she had grown. Her steps were steady, not rushed. She wasn't going back to seek approval. She wasn't going back to explain.
She was going back to reclaim something that had once stolen her voice.
POV: Sometimes we return to places not for closure, but to prove to ourselves that we're no longer prisoners there.
Anna's guardian had insisted gently but firmly
It's time, Purity. You can't start your next chapter while pretending the first one didn't happen. Go back not as the girl who left, but as the woman who's choosing herself.
So she did.
The house hadn't changed. Same cracked flowerpot by the window. Same faded curtains. Same scent of stale memories.
Her mum was in the kitchen when she walked in. Her dad sat by the radio, eyes half-closed like always. Both of them startled at the sight of her.
Purity? her mum asked, wiping her hands.
Good afternoon, Mum. Dad.
So you remembered where you came from? her mum added quickly.
The words came like a slap wrapped in concern.
But Purity didn't flinch.
I never forgot, Mum. I just needed to remember who I was before this place made me small.
Her dad adjusted his glasses. Is everything alright? Are you pregnant or in trouble?
She almost laughed.
No. I'm healing. That's all.
Her old room welcomed her like a photo frame holding a version of herself she no longer was. She sat on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers across the fabric.
She whispered, You tried to break me, but I'm still here.
That evening, at dinner, the air was dense.
Her mum talked about neighbors and church. Her dad cleared his throat and mumbled about children these days.
You never asked me what happened when I stayed here last, she said, softly.
Her mother looked up. What's there to ask?
Everything.
A sharp pause.
Purity, must you always bring up uncomfortable things?" her dad asked.
Uncomfortable truths, Dad. That you both always avoided.
She took a deep breath.
You never taught me anything. Not about my body. Not about boundaries. Every time I asked questions, you shut me down. Made me feel dirty for wanting to understand.
Her mother looked defensive. We raised you right. We gave you food, clothes, and school."
But not voice. Not confidence. Not safe.
Her dad sighed. We didn't know how to talk about those things.
You didn't try. And because of that silence, I suffered things I didn't understand.
She stood up, not in anger, but in clarity.
I'm not here to blame you. I'm not even here for apologies. I'm here to let go. This house shaped me, but it will not define me.
Her mother's voice cracked. We... we didn't mean to hurt you.
Maybe not. But silence did.
That night, in her room, she wrote in her journal:
Sometimes healing means speaking even when the listener doesn't want to hear.
She closed the book and slept in peace.
The next morning, she didn't wait for breakfast.
At the door, her mum and dad stood awkwardly.
Where will you go now? her father asked.
Somewhere I can breathe. With people who listen.
She turned back once more.
I forgive you, even if you never ask. But I won't stay in a place that punishes questions with silence.
POV: Not all goodbyes are sad. Some are necessary for the soul to rise.
As the car drove her away, Anna messaged:
Anna: How do you feel? Purity: Lighter. Like I left my shame under their roof.
Anna: Proud of you.
Purity: Me too. Finally
As the car curved down the familiar road, she didn't look back.
There was nothing to search for in that house anymore. No waiting arms. No overdue apologies. Just walls holding secrets and parents clinging to their own wounds. And maybe… maybe that was the final lesson that healing didn't always come from others. Sometimes, it came from knowing you no longer needed them the way you thought you did.
Purity tilted her head toward the window and closed her eyes.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't sad.
She was... awake.
POV: Sometimes strength isn't loud. It's just you, finally breathing without guilt.
She reached for her phone again and typed, not to send, just to clear her thoughts:
Dear Younger Me,
You weren't too much.
You weren't unlovable.
You were just a girl who needed light in a house that closed the curtains.
I'm so proud of you.
I'm coming back for you, and we're leaving this place together.
She hit save.
Back at Anna's, the door opened before she could knock. Anna stood there in shorts and an oversized hoodie, arms wide open.
Purity walked into the hug like it was a language. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't cry. She didn't need to.
How did it go? Anna asked gently.
I didn't get what I hoped for, Purity said, slipping off her shoes, "but I got what I needed.
They sat down together, the warmth of the space swallowing her whole.
Did they deny everything? Anna asked.
No, Purity replied. They didn't even know what to deny. That's the worst part. They've lived so long not asking questions, they forgot answers exist.
Anna exhaled. That's what happens when silence becomes culture.
Purity nodded, unzipping her bag and pulling out a small framed picture. It was the last photo she had of her as a child, wide-eyed, awkward smile, braids lopsided.
I used to hate this photo, she admitted.
Why?
Because I looked too innocent. Like someone who trusted too much.
Anna leaned over and rested her chin on Purity's shoulder.
Now?
Now I realize… she didn't deserve what happened to her. And she didn't ask for shame. She asked for guidance.
The picture sat on the table between them like a silent witness.
Later that night, Purity opened her journal again. Not to rant, not to spiral but to process.
She wrote:
I think forgiveness is overrated.
Not in the way religion teaches it, but in how people expect it to fix broken things.
I don't hate them.
But I won't shrink from them either.
I'm choosing myself over their denial, over their discomfort, over the tradition of silence.
She paused, then added
I'm not angry. I'm awake.
Over the following days, she didn't talk much about the visit not because she was avoiding it, but because it no longer held power. Her mornings were for journaling, reading, and painting again. The quiet had returned, but this time, it wasn't hiding anything. It was peaceful.
One afternoon, while flipping through a book Anna had recommended, she stumbled on a quote that made her sit up.
Some survivors bloom not in spite of the fire, but because of it.
Purity smiled. I closed the book and reached for a brush.
And began to paint again not because she had to, but because she finally wanted to.
POV: This wasn't about proving anyone wrong. It was about proving to herself that she had always been enough even when no one else saw it.