The hallways of middle school carried whispers farther than anyone intended. By now, I was tuned to them. Every laugh that rang too loud, every glance that lingered too long, felt weighted—like secret codes I was meant to crack. Maybe they were meant for me. Maybe not. Still, I noticed everything.Rumors stuck to me, heavy and clinging. Some students whispered that Ntombentsha wasn't really my mother, that I'd been left with her by someone who couldn't keep me. I tried to brush it off, bury myself in homework and books, but the seed had already been planted. It grew quietly inside, a shadow stretching slow and steady across anything bright.Home felt different too. Tension had a new sharpness. Sometimes, I'd catch Ntombentsha watching me, her eyes lingering just a second too long. Part of me wondered if she could read the questions gathering behind my face. Did she know I'd begun to suspect? Or was I just chasing ghosts, seeing answers where there were only habits?I started watching her more closely. I caught the way she spoke to neighbors, the difference in her voice with adults versus with me. I picked out the details: the pause before she answered, the way her sigh disappeared behind her lips, how she looked away on days when I wanted her to hold my gaze. Every small thing became a clue, and I didn't know if I wanted to solve the mystery or hide from it.School was my window to a world I wasn't sure I belonged in. I asked subtle questions about families and adoption, about parents who left and the gaps they left behind. Friends let things slip, careless as always. Even strangers sometimes revealed more than they realized. Every scrap of overheard conversation felt like a piece of a puzzle I'd never seen the box for.One afternoon, as I returned a borrowed textbook, I heard two girls whispering at the lockers."I heard she's not really her daughter," one said, her eyes darting in my direction.The words hit like a punch to the gut. My fingers tightened around the book. My heart hammered so loud I was sure they'd hear it. I wanted to demand answers, to shout at the world for knowing things I didn't—but I stayed quiet, invisible, holding myself together by force.That night, I filled my notebook with jagged questions: Who am I? Why am I here? Why wasn't I enough? The words felt raw, slicing through whatever numbness I'd built up. My hand shook as I wrote, fear and hope tangled together in every letter.I started testing boundaries. I lingered in the streets after school, asked neighbors questions I would have swallowed before, watched how adults responded to my presence. Each new step felt both dangerous and necessary. I was learning that survival was more than endurance. It meant curiosity, risk, and a stubborn faith that something better might exist.So the whispers became my compass. I didn't know what they'd lead me to or what I'd find. But for the first time, I believed the answers might be out there, somewhere beyond the dusty walls I'd always called home. Maybe—just maybe—there was a life waiting for me that I hadn't even imagined yet.
