Often I have wondered how it would be to have a sibling. Then again, it is better that I do not have one.

Why condemn another to a fate as bad as mine?

As a kid, I had a lonely existence. Dad was on trips for a good part of the year. On the days when he was home, he rarely stepped out of his study. In any case, it was an unwritten rule in our house that when dad was around, silence should prevail. Mom and I thus had to tiptoe around, knowing that any noise made would be like stepping on a mine.

Loneliness is a prison. A dark chamber without any light. Once inside, there is no way out, but to get sucked down further inside.

The lawn outside our house was big enough to run around. But how long can a child run aimlessly by herself before she gets bored?

The house to our left belonged to a wealthy family comprising a man and his wife who were both in their mid-fifties, and their daughter who was in her late twenties. They lived in France and owned a chain hotel business, or so dad says. The house here was more of a vacation retreat for them than anything. I have met them only a few times. Even then, it had been a greet-and-go sort of interaction, and we were not acquainted personally.

The house to our right was once occupied by a Mr Hemsworth and his wife, Laurie. They were an amiable pair, whose daughter was married off to a doctor from South Wilter. They used to give me a treat whenever they met me on the streets. They reminded me a lot of my grandparents, even more so when the latter stopped visiting us.

But maybe my dad might have felt the same too. He used to create a ruckus with them almost every time he came across them. Mom used to stand by the door, watching helplessly. Defending them in public invited unwelcome repercussions. Eventually, they moved out one day and the house has remained vacant ever since.

I had no friends in the neighbourhood. Autumn lived blocks away.

So, at times, I used to coax mom to play with me. But Mom was busy with the chores at home. If not cooking, then doing laundry. If not that, then cleaning the house. More than often, I volunteered to help her so that she could complete her work before time and we could play.

Mom became aware of this and so she started doubling her efforts just to make time for me. I was happy at first. Why wouldn't I be? We played catch on the lawn until one of us was worn out (always mom). And then we ran between the flowers, our laughs ringing through the air. It was fun.

Until I saw it wasn't.

All the hard work that mom did so that she could keep me happy eventually began to take a toll on her. She started getting tired easily. The chores that she had been doing in a clockwork motion for years suddenly became an effort for her. And when dad got home, his watchful eyes were hell bent on picking out her tiredness with his sharp eyes.

That never went well.

He would start by taunting her. He would then insult her parents and the way they brought her up.

The angry tirade would then get directed at me, which always ended with the same line.

'You are definitely growing up to be your mother'.

He probably meant it as a jibe but I never felt the sting.

For me, my mom will always be my everything. She had suffered so much but had never stopped fighting. Her softness might be mistaken by many to be cowardice. But I believe that it was her chosen method of warfare.

Mom had spent years trying to make up for one mistake. She felt that she wronged me more than herself with that single slip. That guilt suffocated her conscience with its sharp claws time and again. Each time, she channeled the pain and agony that hit her towards building her resistance. She used them to strengthen her armour, and stood as a shield to protect me.

The fact is that we are rarely given the chance to pick our battles. Mom thought she finally had control of the consequences of her decision, even if doing so amplified her agony.

She was wrong. Oh how wrong!

The tiredness, the fatigue, the nausea - it all had a reason.

Mom was pregnant.

She was at first, confused. Apprehensive. But when she shared the news with dad and he took it well, the light that had left her eyes, slowly started creeping in. She was happy, again. Excited even.

Even though she was only three weeks pregnant, she took me to the mall and bought baby clothes - both pink and blue. With a beaming smile on her face, she would show me the pictures of cribs and wallpapers that she wanted for the baby and would ask my opinions on them.

I, for one, was perplexed. The only point I got out of it was that I would have to share my mom with the living being in the bump.

I did not like the sound of it.

Mom then sat with me and explained that having a baby as a sibling was 'cool'. I might have to share her love with it, but I would also be having an altogether new person to love. The baby would also love me back. Most importantly, I would have someone to play with.

The last one convinced me thoroughly. I was quick to join the baby bandwagon with a new found enthusiasm. We marked the tentative date of the baby's arrival on the calendar and began the rather excruciating wait.

Dad never objected to this happy chaos we were making in the house, and I took it as a positive sign.

Wrong assumption to make.

Mom lost the baby six weeks into her pregnancy.

Reason : medical termination.

Of course dad was very good at putting on a show. We should have known. He never wanted the baby. He hardly cared. But he also knew that an outright demand for abortion would corner mom into being defensive.

A mother would do anything to protect her child. He had seen it first-hand with me.

So he handled things in his own way. One of his friends was in the medical field. Dad somehow persuaded him that the pregnancy was a risk for mom but that she would not choose to abort it out of love for her unborn child.

I do not know what kind of a person that man was, but he agreed with dad and conducted the procedure conspicuously. Mom was sedated throughout.

When mom finally regained consciousness, and was informed of what transpired, she sat still. Frozen. For hours. No tear escaped her eyes.

Dad somehow sensed that it would do good to keep his distance. But whatever.

My only concern was mom's health. As I laid with my head on her lap, I witnessed how her eyes had lost their lustre again. They appeared dead. Lifeless.

I knew then, that it would remain so forever.