Chapter 6: Early Years
Mary's early years were shaped by quiet endurance and hidden strength. Though she was just a little girl, life had already begun to teach her lessons most children didn't learn until much later. With her father away in the military and her mother stretched thin by responsibility, Mary found herself growing up quickly—though never out loud, never in complaint.
From the moment the sun cracked over the hills each morning, the day began. Mary would rise with her siblings, rub the sleep from her eyes, and help fetch water from the community well. The bucket was too heavy for her arms, but she learned to balance it, spilling only a little. It was in these moments—barefoot, walking the red earth with other village children—that she felt most free.
Back home, there was always something to be done: grinding peppers, sweeping the compound, helping Grace tie her wrapper, feeding baby Gladys. Mary did it all without being asked. She didn't think of it as labor—it was life. And in her mind, if she could make her mother's day a little easier, that was enough.
School was a different world. The classroom was small, packed with wooden benches and filled with heat and dust. Mary sat quietly, always near the front. She loved to learn. Words were a kind of magic to her—letters that formed ideas, stories that lifted her beyond the walls of their home. She listened more than she spoke, but her eyes always told her teachers she was present.
But behind that brightness, Mary often carried a tiredness. Not the tiredness that came from running or studying, but the kind that lived deep in her chest. She missed her father, even if she didn't say it. She noticed her mother's growing sadness, even if no one talked about it. And though she played with her siblings, laughed when others did, and smiled when spoken to—she already knew life wasn't fair.
Still, even in those early years, Mary held something sacred inside her: hope. It was quiet. Fragile. But it was there.
And somehow, she never let it go.