Jasmine’s POV
I switch to the other side of the bed, trying to escape the clanging of utensils disturbing my sleep. Failing, I keep my eyes closed and reach for my pillow. Eventually, I open one eye and lazily pull the pillow over my face, pressing it down to muffle the noise.
“Ugh, this isn’t helping.” I drop my arms to my sides and stay still for a few seconds before checking the time on my bedside table.
10 a.m.
“10 a.m.?!” I bolt upright. Shucks, I have to hurry to make it to the mechanics on time and be back in time to help set up for my mother’s guests. Some of her friends and family members are coming over for a brunch. Usually, these brunches are for discussing new projects they’re launching and whether anyone needs aid—financially or socially.
They made some kind of pact back in university—one of those idealistic promises people assume will fade with age. They never did.
My thoughts drift to the few old memories I have of my dad—how he used to help prepare the food, taking every opportunity to tease our mother, which would get on her nerves, but back then, it seemed like she enjoyed it. Well, we thought so. She would wear a hidden smile or secretly giggle despite how hard she tried to hide it.
A soft giggle slips through at the thought of her famous line back then. “I can’t entertain your father’s antics, or else we won’t get anything done.” Which was a little ironic of her to say, since he would finish his preparations twenty to thirty minutes earlier each time. At some point, we, the kids, agreed that it was some weird game of theirs and they didn’t want to admit to it.
I shake my head, pushing away the image of his crinkling eyes and the boisterous laugh.
“I miss you, Dad.” My arms fold around myself before I can stop them.
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
Slipping on my sneakers, I make my way downstairs to prepare a quick bowl of cereal. I open the cabinet, relieved my favourite hasn’t run out. Turning around, I jump.
“Morning,” my mother greets as she drops her dishes into the sink.
“Morning,” I reply, treading carefully.
“How did the event go?” she asks, pausing from washing her dishes to glance at me.
“It went well. The kids enjoyed it.”
“That’s good. I heard you came in late. I’m guessing the event went longer than expected. You didn’t share the ride’s link, or did you manage to get a ride?”
“Yes, but it was mostly the cleaning up that took longer. I, um, sent it to Arya and Anne.”
“Okay,” she answers, wiping her hands, before elegantly placing the towel in place.
“I’ll be heading to the mechanics for the car, as I mentioned. I’ll be back soon. I’ll text if anything comes up, but I doubt it will.”
She nods, keeping her eyes on me. “—Be safe.”
“Okay—I mean, thank you,” I respond, a bit caught off guard by her mood.
Hope flickers—I press it down before it grows into something I can’t afford.
After calling the Uber, I wash my dishes. When done, I check how many minutes until the car arrives.
Almost here.
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
“Oh, my baby!” I hug my steering wheel. I can’t believe he took this long to fix my car. It’s been—what—four months of waiting? And he promised it would only take about one month. I huff, remembering the endless back-and-forth I endured.
Opening the boot, I grab the shopping bags that are filled with a couple of baking ingredients that we ran out of. Entering the house, I make my way to the kitchen to find Auntie Marie already occupying the space.
Auntie Marie is the only person with whom my mother stays in touch from my father’s side of the family. It’s not that they are difficult people. They did try a few times to reach out to my mother, but she had gone through a severe depression and ended up isolating herself from anything that had to do with my dad.
At first, from what I’ve been told, they barely tolerated each other. In the beginning, they would butt heads. Since my aunt is the eldest daughter and first child, my mother used to be very on guard around her. Apparently, she’d dealt with one too many difficult eldest daughters and firstborns as in-laws before.
So one day, Auntie Marie called her out on it, and long story short, they became close friends.
“Ah, ma chérie!” Auntie Marie, who is attentively mixing drinks—which she’s very good at—shoots her head up as I drop the shopping bags onto the counter.
“Hi Auntie Marie,” I greet, going into her hug.
“It’s been a while.” Her hands grasp both of my arms as her eyes take me in. “Eh, ma fille, I can see you are hitting the gym.”
I laugh at her candour.
“You look good,” she exclaims before pulling me into another embrace, this one longer than the other. “I’ve missed you so much,” she mumbles into my shoulder as she savours the moment. I swallow. I know she is probably thinking about my father. It is said that amongst my siblings, I’m the one who looks more like him, though I also have strong features of my mother at the same time. If that makes sense? I don’t know, but that’s what I have been used to hearing.
“How’s everyone been?” I ask, as she releases me.
“They are good. It’s just been your uncle and me.” She dramatically sighs before continuing. “The last baby moved out of the house for her studies.” Referring to my older cousin, Ayana. The last time I had seen her, she mentioned she had plans to study abroad for her master’s.
I chuckle, “On the good side, you get to spend more quality time with Uncle John. Though you would be missing them.”
She laughs, “Ah, my baby, you haven’t changed. You still try to look at the positive sides of things.”
I shrug, moving to unpack the ingredients. Unsure of what to say in response to her comment. From the corner of my eye, I see Auntie Marie shake her head, a tender smile gracing her lips as she observes me before attending to what she was previously doing.
In a little over an hour, half the preparations are done.
“Come join me,” my aunt pats the chair beside her. “So, how have studies been?” She rests her chin on her palm.
“I’m in my last year, so it’s been a bit intense but manageable.” She nods, her eyes fixed on mine.
“Do you plan on continuing the next stage here or abroad?”
“I’m not sure…” Even if I wished to go where I planned, my visa is still awaiting to be approved. Her hand resting on top of mine breaks me out of my thoughts.
“I’m sure you will become an amazing architect.”
I give her a weak grin. As of late… things have felt a little bit jumbled up.
“Your father was one of the most renowned architects,” she says, laughing warmly as she reminisces. “But when we were in our early teens, he would frequently vocalise that he wanted nothing to do with it. That he wanted to be different from Father and Grandpère. The whole household began to think he was serious about it, not that Father was against it, but Grandpère had a bit of a hard time accepting it. But either way, that concern didn’t last, because one day your father came to me with dozens of different sketches he had created, asking me what I thought about them. To say I was shocked was an understatement. I kept thinking, when did the guy who was furiously opposing becoming an architect suddenly become so interested in it?”
I lean closer without realising it, as she recalls the past events. My heart warms hearing about my dad, whose memories had become a closed chapter in this household.
“That’s why I don’t doubt that you will succeed in it. Intelligence and creativity aside, it runs in the family.”
My story seems the opposite of my father’s;my jaw tightens subtly at the thought.
“What kind of man was he?” I ask, ignoring that this is possibly my millionth time asking this question—but my aunt never seems to be bothered by it, rather, answers as if it’s her very first time being asked about it.
“Demetri… was the loudest but most closed-off in the family. He had his way of making his presence known, especially his laughs and jokes.” We both let out a small laugh in agreement. “But one thing that would annoy me the most is how you couldn’t really know what was going on in his mind. Sometimes I would blame Maman for it—” She cuts herself before she can say more. She clears her throat, coming out of her thoughts. Her gaze settles over my shoulder.
I turn to see my mother standing by the door. Her hands briefly clench her suit pants, catching my attention.
“Is she bothering you with questions once again?” My mother raises a brow at me for a second before putting on the oven gloves just as the oven beeps—she pulls the cake from the oven and places it carefully on the tray. My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. A light but firm press on my hand snaps me out of it. I meet Auntie Marie’s eyes of concern for a moment before getting up.
“The preparation is almost done,” I mutter, bypassing her remark. Receiving no response, I start preparing the sandwiches, refusing to run away as if I did something wrong.
Silence follows for a bit before Auntie Marie starts another conversation that carries on for another hour, and by then, everything’s been prepared, and a couple of guests have arrived.
Me: Heyy, are you still coming over?
“Jasmine!” my mother calls me over, gesturing with her hand.
I quickly send the text, before slipping it into my dress pocket. The brunch is taking place in the garden, which the gardener has done a great job of keeping.
“Please bring me the blue bag from my room, there are some things in there.”
“Okay.”
“Jasmine just increases in beauty every time I see her,” I hear Aunt Lora comment, which cues other responses from the rest.
“Blue bag,” I whisper to myself as I survey the room. Finding it next to the couch, I grab it, underestimating how heavy it is. Adjusting my hold, I leave the room, making sure to lock it and place the key in its usual place when there are guests.
Remembering that I need to charge my phone, I take a stop at my room before joining them downstairs.
“Thank you,” my mom says, before taking out wrapped gifts, earning a few gasps. “I bought these for you all, to appreciate this friendship and support system.”
One thing about my mother is that she is big on gifting people. Though we may not agree on certain things, it would be a lie to claim she doesn’t provide materially.
“Oh, Margot, thank you!” A chorus of thank-yous follows.
“Jasmine, I hope you meet a special someone who will spoil you like your mom does,” one of my mother’s guests says, beaming.
“Does she need a man to survive?” My mother rolls her eyes at the statement that was made.
“Oh come on, Margot, let her decide.”
“I’m simply keeping her best interests in mind. Either way, who would stick around with her for long?”
Whoa, what does she mean by that?
“You can leave,” my mother signals me, shifting her eyes to the bag.
I nod quickly—too quickly—batting away the tears of embarrassment. As soon as I am out of their sight, I let the tears fall. Jasmine, why are you crying? Did you have plans to marry? So, why are you being emotional about it? But why does it feel like something was just taken from me? I furiously wipe the tears with the back of my hand, attempting to fix my facial expression in case I bump into someone.
Having dropped the bag back at my mother’s room, exactly where it had been, I step outside to get some fresh air.
Settling on the doorsteps, my face hidden between my knees, I press my forehead harder against them. For a moment, I saw the sadness in her eyes. She must have realised just how sharply her words and actions hit this time.
Sensing someone beside me, I lift my head.
“Arya? You’re late?” I jokingly say, forcing a smile, which doesn’t go past her as concern covers her face.
Arya and I started our own little version of the brunch years ago, while my mother’s one would go on. At first, it was a silly idea; we would act as if we had our own businesses and were pitching our own ideas, etc., just like the adults would. Somehow, what started as a joke stuck. We would actually brainstorm ideas, but also play games or watch movies/series. Justin joins sometimes, mostly for the free food. His own words, not my own. Although I know he simply enjoys spending time with us, “occasionally”. Once again, his own words. I doubt that guy would freely admit to enjoying our company.
“Yeah, a few things came up that I had to sort out. I texted you—I’m guessing you didn’t see it?” She continues to study my face before deciding to ask. “Is everything alright, Jas?”
“Oh my bad, I don’t have my phone with me,” I say, checking my pockets while trying to hide my watery eyes—blinking away the tears before looking up. “Yeah, I’m all good. Why do you ask?” I struggle to hold her gaze.
“I called out your name about three times before you noticed me, which is not like you. Do you mind if I join you?” She points next to me.
“Yeah, but I think we should move from here; there might be more guests showing up.” Though part of the truth is that I don’t want to face anyone at all, feeling humiliated by what took place.
We go up to my room, but before that, I check that everything is sorted and that I won’t be called to help out with anything any time soon.
“Arya… my relationship with my mom isn’t the healthiest.”
“As if that isn’t so obvious,” she can’t help but add, the disdain isn’t hard to catch. I pause, rethinking whether sharing this many details with her is the best choice, considering how deeply she feels for those she cares about.
Deciding to go ahead, but choosing my words wisely. “She has this habit… of embarrassing me in front of people. Like she doesn’t even notice.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t realise it?”
I keep quiet, not wanting to say anything I can later regret. Although I feel everything bubbling inside of me, patiently waiting to explode.
“Jas, excuse what I’m about to say. But your mom treats you terribly. No parent should treat their child that way. It pains me to see you take it like that, when you know you could, no—should, speak up.”
“I—” I try to speak, but no more words seem to make it out.
Arya breathes out heavily before slumping down beside me. We both sit still, lost in our thoughts.
She lightly pulls me into an embrace, “Father, you are not one to overlook the pain of your children. For as your Word states, ‘You are close to the brokenhearted and save those who are crushed in spirit.'”
Tears flow upon hearing her prayer over me. Her voice keeps going, but I can’t seem to follow the words.
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
It is now late in the evening. The guests have left, and I am lying on my bed, flat on my stomach, as I meditate on the scripture, Colossians chapter 1, verse 9.
“For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives, so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way:” I let out a heavy breath through my nose, pausing to process the words.
“God, please help me to know your perfect will for my life. I don’t understand what’s been happening lately. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted in life—but it seems like that’s not the case,” I murmur under my breath, my head pounding from the thoughts running wild.
“Bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience.” Patience. Strength. Endurance. The words echo.
“God, please help me grow in knowledge of You. So that I may do better at navigating through this life.” I shut my eyes for a bit before opening them. “And giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light. For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”
A knock on the door stops me midway. “Yes?”
My mother pops her head in before fully coming in.
“Am I disturbing?” Pondering on my response, I settle on a no.
“I brought you something.” She draws her hand from her back, revealing a gift box wrapped in royal blue. “Here,” she offers, extending the gift to me.
“Thank you.” I fix my posture, slowly taking the box from her.
“Are you not going to open it?”
“Oh…” Her shoulders slump for a second before she fixes it. I carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. There lies a book and a gold watch, with little diamonds decorating it.
“Thank you, Mom,” I say, getting up to give her a small hug. I’m almost certain it’s no coincidence she brought me the exact book I’d mentioned ordering, but I’d gotten so busy it slipped my mind. I can’t help but think she probably checked my book collection for confirmation. We aren’t the type to hug much, well, over time, that became the case, but this time, I hug her longer than usual.
Maybe this is my way of meeting her halfway.
I feel her hands hesitantly wrap around me for a short while before she lets go. Lightly clearing her throat, she makes her way out of the room.
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© 2026 Emmanuelle Ngoie. All rights reserved. The Crying Girl is an original work. No part of this work may be copied, reproduced, or distributed without permission.
