It had been six months since I left that house. Six months since I packed my bags, walked out the door, and left behind everything I thought I couldn’t survive without. Delhi felt like a fresh start—a place where I could finally breathe.
That day started like any other. My friend had come over to drop off some books and accidentally locked the washroom door from outside before leaving. I didn’t realize it until I was inside, washing my hands. For a moment, I panicked, pulling at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Then I realized my roommate would be back in about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes? That’s nothing. I sat down on the cold floor, leaning back against the wall. But as the silence settled in, my mind began to wander. And before I knew it, I was back in another washroom, in another house, in another life.
I was 13 again, sitting on the cold floor of that tiny washroom, clutching the door handle with all my strength. My stepmother’s voice was on the other side, loud and angry, “jaldi nikal warna aur marungi”. She pounded on the door, but I wouldn’t open it. That washroom was my only refuge. It was the one place in that house where her anger couldn’t touch me, where I could cry without her constant screaming.
I remembered the mornings when she woke me up at 5:30 a.m., her sharp voice cutting through my dreams, “jaldi uth aur Kaam kar”. My little hands ached from scrubbing floors and dusting shelves before anyone else in the house had even woken up. I was too small to reach the higher shelves, so I’d drag a stool or a table, balancing precariously while lizards darted across the walls. Then there were the beatings. The sting of her hands, the slap of her slipper. I remember one time she hit me so hard that my knee turned purple. I couldn’t walk properly for days, but when my father asked about it later, I lied. “Gir gayi thi,” I told him, smiling through the ache. What else could I say? If I told him the truth, her punishment would have been worse.
And then there was the food. My stepsister was allowed chocolates, cookies, chips—everything fancy that I wasn’t. If I so much as touched one of her treats, I’d be scolded, yelled at, or worse. But sometimes, when no one was looking, I’d sneak into the kitchen, grab a cookie or two, and run to the washroom. I’d lock the door, sit on the pot, and eat as quickly as I could, savoring each bite like it was forbidden treasure. Even during my worst moments, when her words cut deeper than her hands, I’d run to the washroom to cry. I’d sit on the floor, wiping my tears, and tell myself, “Just a few years more, and this will all be over”. And then I’d walk out, pretending like nothing had happened.
Back in my flat’s washroom, I opened my eyes, startled by how vivid the memories were. It felt like I could still hear her voice, feel the sting of her words. But then I reminded myself: I wasn’t in that house anymore. This washroom wasn’t a refuge. It wasn’t a place to hide. It was just a room.
I thought about how far I’d come since the day I left. The day I packed my bags wasn’t loud or dramatic. I didn’t yell, slam doors, or make grand declarations. I just left. I packed my books, my clothes, and the small pieces of my life that I wanted to keep. My stepmother didn’t stop me. She barely looked at me as I walked out.
That was two years ago. In the two years since I left my home, life has been anything but easy. Those memories still haunt me. The trauma still lingers, whispering in the quiet moments, sneaking into my dreams. But I’m not that girl anymore. I’m in therapy now, working through the demons of my past. It’s not a straight path—there are setbacks, bad days, and moments where I still feel like I’m fighting to breathe. But I’m moving forward. I’ve built a life here in Delhi. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. I pay my own bills, take care of my own needs, and try every day to choose myself over the shadows of my past. Some days, that choice feels impossible, but I make it anyway.
If you’re reading this, and you’re in a home that doesn’t feel like home, this is your sign! This is your sign to leave, to walk away from the people and places that hurt you, no matter how hard it seems. I know how scary it is. I know how easy it is to tell yourself, “Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year.” But life doesn’t wait.
Leaving my toxic home wasn’t just the best thing I ever did—it was the hardest. It was messy and painful and full of uncertainty. But it was worth it. Because on the other side of all that pain, there’s freedom. There’s a version of you waiting to live, to breathe, to love life in a way you never thought possible.
So, pack your bags. Choose yourself. And don’t look back.
Featured Image: Pexels
