Living on our small island was akin to living in a closed environment. Everyone knew everyone’s business, and there were no secrets. As the child of a single mother in her early twenties, I had a label. I carried it before I even understood what it meant. Words like “illegitimate” floated around me like invisible specters, shaping how people saw me before they knew me.
But in the midst of this social turbulence, I found refuge in my aunt’s house. Its weathered blue shutters were like my lighthouse in the storm.
In our culture, it is the grandmother who takes care of the family in these circumstances. Unfortunately, she passed before I was born. My maternal grandmother raised the children. My grandfather, who was of Indian Tamil origin, worked as a retailer and had little skill in raising children. After the passing of my grandmother, the responsibility devolved onto my aunt Rita, one of the elder aunties. Even before she had children of her own, she took care of her younger siblings. She also took care of her siblings’ children.
I was born at home, her house. There was no ceremony to mark the day. My mother was a young nurse. The morals of Catholicism greatly influenced people on the island. The government forbade unmarried teachers and nurses from pursuing their careers. The government controlled all of these professions. There were no private schools or practices at that time. My mother left to pursue her career as a nurse in the UK. I was one year old. My mother’s goodbye was tearful. My aunt’s firm hand on my shoulder guided me inside. “This is your home now,” she said simply, showing me to a small room she’d prepared. It wasn’t charity; it was family doing what family does.
My aunt worked as a seamstress at a hotel. She left home when the roosters were still sleeping. She returned as the sun painted the sky orange. Despite her exhaustion, she’d sit with me at the kitchen table. She pored over my schoolwork by the light of an old lamp that hummed softly in the background. Her formal education had stopped early, but her hunger for knowledge never did.
“Education is the one thing nobody can take from you,” she would say, her finger underlining words in my textbook. “Not your circumstances, not other people’s opinions.”
When people whispered about my family situation, she didn’t shelter me from reality. Instead, she taught me to face it. “We don’t have control over how we come into this world,” she explained. She was peeling potatoes for dinner. “But we have everything to say about what we do with our time here.”
She was well-disciplined. Her home ran on routine—breakfast at 6:15, homework right after school, and chores before dinner. This predictability became my sanctuary. While the circumstances of my birth were complicated, my daily life was structured with loving precision. In that reliability, I found the space to dream beyond our small community’s boundaries.
My aunt never had much materially, but she managed resources with remarkable intelligence. When school required new books, somehow she found them. When I needed a scientific calculator for advanced math, it appeared on my bed one evening. I later learned she had taken extra work to afford it.
What stays with me most was the way she navigated our community. Head high, back straight, she walked with me through town despite the whispers. She attended school functions alone among the pairs of parents, clapping the loudest when I received academic awards. “Let them talk,” she’d say. “We know who we are.”
Under her watchful care, I learned that stability isn’t about perfect circumstances—it’s about unwavering presence. It is comforting to know that someone fully believes in you, without any limitations or expiration date.
Today, I stand with my doctorate and a very successful international career. I live a life my mother could barely have imagined. I know with certainty that before any academic ever believed in my potential, my aunt created the foundation. She made my achievement possible through unwavering support.
L J Padayachy 
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