(Revised and expanded with your stepfather’s violence and the school separation)
They weren’t just my siblings.
They were my shadows — seven little bodies trailing behind me, seven pairs of eyes watching my every move, seven hearts beating in rhythm with mine. I didn’t walk alone anywhere. If I went to the kitchen, they followed. If I stepped outside, they poured out behind me like a small parade. If I sat down, they gathered around me, leaning on my legs, tugging at my arms, resting their heads on my shoulders.
I was their safe place.
Their second mother.
Their shield.
Their comfort.
Their example.
Their everything.
And I was still just a child.
---
The Weight of Seven Being the eldest of seven meant waking up before everyone else.
It meant hearing my mother’s voice calling softly from the kitchen, “Flotjie, please help me with the little ones.”
It meant tying shoelaces, wiping noses, brushing hair, and calming tantrums before I even had time to think about myself.
But it also meant something darker — something heavier.
It meant standing between my siblings and a man who didn’t know how to love. A man who didn’t know how to be gentle.
A man who didn’t know how to be a father.
My stepfather was a wife batterer.
That’s the truth.
He hit my mother.
He shouted at her.
He broke her spirit piece by piece, day by day, year by year.
We saw it.
We heard it.
We felt it.
Children always feel violence, even when adults pretend they don’t.
I remember the sound of his voice rising like a storm.
I remember the thud of something hitting the wall.
I remember my mother’s muffled cries behind a closed door.
I remember gathering my siblings, pulling them close, whispering, “It’s okay, just stay here with me.”
I didn’t know if it was okay.
But they needed to hear it.
And I needed to say it.
---
The Black Sheep My stepfather didn’t hide the fact that he didn’t like me.
He didn’t hide the fact that I was different.
He didn’t hide the fact that I was the black sheep.
He made sure I felt it.
Every day.
In small ways.
In big ways. While my six siblings went to better schools, I was sent to a different one — alone.
No sister.
No brother.
No familiar face walking beside me.
Just me.
He made sure I didn’t have anyone.
He made sure I didn’t belong.
He made sure I knew I wasn’t one of “his.”
I remember watching my siblings put on their neat uniforms, pack their lunches, and walk together to the school they shared.
I remember standing at the gate of my own school, feeling like an outsider in my own family.
Children don’t always understand cruelty, but they feel it deeply.
I felt it every morning.
Every afternoon.
Every time I walked home alone.
My mother tried to soften it.
She tried to make me feel included.
She tried to make me feel loved.
But she couldn’t undo what he did.
She couldn’t erase the separation.
She couldn’t protect me from being singled out.
I was the eldest.
But I was also the one he pushed aside.
---
A House Full of Noise and Fear Our house was never quiet.
There was always someone crying, someone laughing, someone fighting, someone asking for something. The walls echoed with footsteps, arguments, giggles, and the constant hum of life. But beneath the noise, there was fear.
Fear of his footsteps.
Fear of his anger.
Fear of his hands.
My mother moved through the house like a tired ghost — present, loving, but worn down by the weight of everything she carried. She tried her best, but seven children and a violent husband were more than any woman should have to bear alone.
So she leaned on me.
And I leaned on her.
And together, we tried to keep the house from falling apart.
But the truth was simple:
The house was already broken.
---
The Protector I didn’t choose to be their protector.
Life chose it for me.
When my stepfather raised his voice, they ran to me.
When my mother cried quietly in the kitchen, they clung to me.
When the house felt unsafe, they hid behind me.
I stood between them and the world, even when I didn’t know how to stand for myself.
I remember one night when the tension in the house was thick enough to choke on. My stepfather was pacing, muttering under his breath, slamming drawers, slamming doors. My siblings huddled around me like chicks around a mother hen. I wrapped my arms around them, whispering, “It’s okay, just stay here with me.”
I didn’t know if it was okay.
But they needed to hear it.
And I needed to say it.
That night, I realized something:
I wasn’t just their big sister.
I was their shield. ---
Growing Up Too Fast While other girls my age were playing outside, laughing with friends, dreaming about school dances or crushes, I was washing dishes, changing diapers, calming tantrums, and helping my mother carry the weight of a household that felt too heavy for both of us.
I didn’t resent it.
But I didn’t understand it either.
I didn’t understand why I had to grow up so fast.
Why I had to be responsible when I still felt like a child.
Why I had to protect everyone when no one protected me.
I didn’t know that my childhood was already slipping away.
I didn’t know that soon, I would be taken from the house entirely.
I didn’t know that my siblings would watch me leave and never understand why.
I didn’t know that the man twice my age — the one who watched me too closely — was already planning to take me away.
---
The Bond That Saved Me Despite everything — the fear, the tension, the responsibility — my siblings were my light.
They were the reason I smiled.
The reason I laughed.
The reason I kept going.
We shared secrets, jokes, dreams, and fears.
We shared food, clothes, blankets, and hopes.
We shared everything.
They didn’t know it, but they saved me.
Every day.
In small ways.
In big ways.
In ways I didn’t understand until much later. They gave me purpose when I felt lost.
They gave me strength when I felt weak.
They gave me love when I felt invisible.
And when I left — when I was forced to leave — the memory of them stayed with me like a heartbeat.
Seven little shadows.
Seven little souls.
Seven pieces of my heart.
---
The Beginning of the End I didn’t know it then, but the bond I had with my siblings was about to be tested in the worst way.
I didn’t know that soon, I would be taken from them.
I didn’t know that my childhood would end abruptly.
I didn’t know that my role as their protector would be replaced by a role I never wanted — a wife at fifteen.
But before everything changed, before my world shifted, before I walked away from the house on the corner, I had them.
Seven little shadows.
Seven reasons to stay strong.
Seven reasons to survive.
And they would stay with me — in memory, in love, in spirit — through everything that came next.