CHAPTER 3: A HOME THAT REJECTS ME

CHAPTER 3: A HOME THAT REJECTS ME

The moment I step into the living room, I feel it again — the invisible line that separates me from everyone else in this house. I am not just unwelcome; I am a problem. A shadow. A reminder of failure. Even the walls seem to lean in, pressing, judging.

Cynthia is already there, perched on the sofa like a queen observing her kingdom, except the kingdom is one I can’t belong to. Her eyes flick up when she notices me. Not a smile, not a greeting — only calculation, a weighing of my worth.

“Ah,” she says, voice smooth and controlled, “you’re here. Did you remember to shower before you came down? Some men… they think washing is optional.”

I stiffen but say nothing. Silence is the only shield I have left. I nod faintly, stepping past her. Thandeka is on the other sofa, scrolling through her phone, avoiding both of us. The space between us is wide, empty, silent, and I can feel it stretching even more under Cynthia’s gaze.

Cynthia shakes her head. “I don’t know how Thandeka stands you. A man without a job, sleeping on the floor, taking up space as if he belongs…” Her words slice through the room like a blade. “Some people just don’t know what it means to provide. Or to respect the house they’re in.”

Thandeka finally looks up, her face pale. She opens her mouth to protest, but I can see the hesitation there. She wants to defend me, I know she does, but something in Cynthia has trained her to doubt herself before anyone else can doubt me.

I step back, closing my eyes briefly. I can’t argue with Cynthia. I can’t confront her. Not here. Not yet.

I remember my old life. The suits. The meetings. The deals. The way the world seemed to bend at my commands. Now I can’t even bend a word in my own defense. I am smaller than a mouse.

I sit down quietly on the floor, my back pressed against the wall. Every creak, every movement seems amplified. The air feels thick, charged with disapproval.

Cynthia notices, of course. She leans forward slightly, just enough for me to feel the weight of her scrutiny. “Sitting there like that,” she says, voice low and sharp, “do you feel like a man? Or just a guest?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

The silence stretches, long and heavy. Then I hear it — her chair scraping against the floor as she stands. Her steps approach, careful, deliberate. She stops just a few feet from me.

“You know,” she says, lowering her voice, “some men don’t need enemies. They make enemies of themselves.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my hands from shaking. I’m angry. I’m humiliated. But I can’t let her see it. That would give her power beyond what she already has.

Thandeka shifts beside her mother. “Mama…” she says softly, but Cynthia cuts her off with a raised hand.

“No, Thandeka. Let him hear it. Let him feel it. Maybe then he’ll understand.”

The words settle like a weight on my chest. I feel the familiar tightness of shame — the kind that has followed me for years, growing quietly, invisibly, in every corner of my life.

I remember my mother, long ago, telling me that some people are born with privilege and others with obstacles. She never explained that the obstacles could be built by the very people who claim to love you.

Cynthia tilts her head, her gaze narrowing. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” she asks, voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying a sharpness that cuts straight through me. “I see a man who doesn’t know where he belongs. A man who doesn’t know who he is. A man whose life is… unfinished.”

I feel the walls pressing in, the room shrinking around me. I want to disappear. I want to vanish into the floor beneath me, into the thin mattress I slept on, anywhere but here.

Thandeka looks at me, finally, with eyes that are half apology, half fear. “Don’t listen to her,” she whispers.

But I do. I have no choice.

Cynthia steps back, a smirk on her face. “Oh, don’t look so defeated. You’ve still got a long way to go before you understand how little you matter in this house.”

I sit in silence, breathing shallowly, counting the cracks in the floor. Every word, every glance, every subtle movement is a judgment. A sentence. I am not just unwelcome; I am unwanted.

The hours pass slowly. I try to distract myself with my phone, scrolling through job listings, staring at emails I will never receive answers from. But the house doesn’t allow distractions. Every creak, every sigh from Cynthia is a reminder: you are temporary. You are not enough.

That night, I sat on the floor in my corner, watching shadows dance across the ceiling. I replay every conversation, every insult, every accusation. I try to remember the man I used to be. I try to imagine a future where I am not reduced to this — a man who sleeps on the floor of his girlfriend’s mother’s house, ignored, judged, humiliated.

Something in me shifts. Not strength yet. Not hope. But awareness. I realize that this humiliation, this constant pressure, is not just a punishment for my unemployment. It is a test. A preparation. Something I don’t fully understand yet.

And then, a thought, sharp and sudden, like a spark in the dark: I am not meant to stay here. I am not meant to be small forever.

Cynthia’s voice cuts through the room again, dragging me back. “Dinner’s ready. If you can stomach it, come down. And make it quick.”

I stand, stiffly, every muscle protesting. I walk past her, past Thandeka, and down the hall. The dining room smells of food I cannot enjoy, food I am allowed but not welcome to touch. Every bite is a reminder: my place here is temporary. My worth is questioned. My identity is mocked.

I sit quietly, picking at my food, listening to them talk about things I cannot afford — vacations, family events, trivialities I used to take for granted. Every laugh, every story, every casual gesture is a reminder of what I have lost.

And yet, beneath all the shame, beneath all the humiliation, beneath all the anger, a seed of determination takes root.

I will not stay broken forever. I do not know how I will rise. I do not know when or if life will allow it. But I know one thing: I am not finished.

I finish dinner silently, standing before I am done, excusing myself. I retreat to the thin mattress in the corner of the room I now call mine. The darkness greets me like an old friend.

And in the silence, I whisper to myself, the words strange but comforting: I will find my father. I will know my blood. I will take back my life.

Somewhere, deep inside, I feel it — a presence, unseen but powerful, as if it has been waiting for me to say it aloud. The weight in my chest lightens slightly. I feel… anticipation.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, things must change.

And yet, I know this: the house will not let me go quietly.

Something is coming. Something worse than humiliation. Something that will push me beyond fear, beyond shame, beyond everything I thought I knew about myself.

And I am not ready.