It was a quiet weekday morning, the kind that felt deceptively normal. Big Boss left for work at 6 AM, Melody, 4yeard old, dashed off to school at 730 AM, while I stayed behind with Madam, the heart of the house, until 9 AM. She admitted she had a lot to do, and my endless stories weren’t helping. I smiled, promising to keep the house running smoothly.
Melody returned from school, and we spent a typical afternoon, unaware that tragedy had struck the family.
At 5 PM, Madam came home, her eyes red and teary, heading straight to her bedroom without her usual warm “hello.” I assumed it was a rough day at the office and focused on preparing dinner. By 7 PM, Big Boss arrived, greeted us briefly, and followed Madam to their room.This was unusual. Dinner was sacred family time, and Madam never missed it. But the bedroom door stayed closed. I figured they needed space and served dinner to Melody and myself.
Minutes after 7 PM, Big Boss’s brother and his wife arrived, their faces were gloomy. I offered them food, but they declined politely. Their visit felt off, so I pressed gently. “Madam came home crying. Big Boss barely spoke before locking themselves in. You both look somber. What’s wrong?”Big Boss’s brother looked surprised. “They didn’t tell you?” “No,” I don’t even have a clue.” “Junior, their son, passed away at 2 PM. They’ll tell you more when they’re ready. Just be patient and do your best.”
The news hit like a stone. Junior, the baby I’d never met but whose clothes I folded daily, was gone. It was the saddest moment of my year. For four months, I cleaned, cooked, and prayed alongside Madam. I dusted Junior’s furniture, folded his clothes, and listened as madam whispered, “My seven year old son is coming back. You’ll see how lively he is.” Each day, her words broke my heart. I couldn’t fathom her pain, but I felt its weight in the air.
Visitors flooded the house the next day, offering condolences. As the house help, I had no time to grieve. My job was to keep the house together, meals served, floors spotless, guests accommodated. Madam, drained of strength, could only murmur, “Make sure everyone eats. Keep the house clean. If someone stays over, find them a bed. I can’t manage anything else.” The burial was set for two weeks later, awaiting relatives from abroad.
The workload overwhelmed me. Some guests helped with dishes or cooking, but only briefly. The gateman pitched in, chopping vegetables or meat between his duties at the gate, but it wasn’t enough. I was drowning in tasks with only two hands.I pleaded for help. My bosses hesitated to ask relatives, so I suggested bringing in a friend with experience. They agreed, and she eased the burden, but I still worried about Big Boss.
Big Boss didn’t even get a moment to cry. Not properly. From the minute the news came in, everyone turned to him. The funeral service people needed answers. The relatives needed direction. Guests kept arriving with expectations. Even I, in the middle of everything, kept going to him — to ask for soap, for chairs, for help.
The watchman too needed updates about parking, about visitors, about who could enter.
It was too much. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many needs.
And in all of it, no one asked him how he was. No one gave him silence to mourn. But I saw it in his posture, in the way his shoulders dropped, in the way he stared at nothing. In the redness of his eyes. Not from lack of sleep, but from a pain that had no room to breathe.
I missed Madam’s laughter, her stories, her warmth. The house felt cold without her. She only spoke to request something, and I didn’t know how to bring her back. So, I wrote. Letters, short stories, reflections on my days serving the family. Writing was my solace, a way to process the chaos. I knew Madam loved reading my work, so I saved every piece for when she was ready.
Whenever I got a minute with big boss, I’d ask him to greet her for me. “Tell her I miss her. Tell her I’m trying to hold everything together just like she expected.”
Two weeks later, I saw Junior for the first time at his funeral. He was handsome, like he was only sleeping. The sight broke me, but I kept moving—cleaning, cooking, organizing.The visitors left, but the sadness lingered. Our house didn’t go back to normal.
I kept writing, and eventually, Madam read my letters and stories. Some brought tears; others brought a faint smile. That smile, however small, was everything.