Hope Dimming

6 min readAug 9, 2022

She sat there, in her Sunday best, shoes shined, her favourite dress on, the black one with the coloured dots and the swishy skirt. She loved the way that it moved as she turned.

Biting her lip, she forced down the hot tears that threatened to overwhelm her.

She felt them squeezing out through her eyelids, no, she whispered in her mind, don’t let him see.

It was as if everyone’s eyes were upon her, as she tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to break through.

Accusing eyes everywhere, even the vicar who she loved, the one that all the kids thought was Father Christmas at Christmas time. He had the same white beard as Father Christmas, the same huge hands she imagined that Santa had, the same twinkle in his eye.

Even in church she couldn’t find peace, people everywhere when she wanted to be alone, or to sink into the ground.

She didn’t know what she’d done this time, she couldn’t work it out.

Something had changed between last night, when he had stroked her long hair and called her Beauty. Her favourite time, how she loved and craved those times.

What could have changed even as she slept?

They’d barely spoken that morning, so she didn’t think that she’d said anything wrong.

His coldness, extremely frosty this morning.

She’d given him a good morning kiss as she always did. But as she did, he turned his head, and her kiss brushed his hair. It didn’t land. Then his back, looming, vast, like his barricade to her love, her desperate little girl love, such a precious gift.

When they got to church, he held her hand, for a moment she felt a rush of relief, she thought it was all over. But as soon as the vicar turned his back to greet the next person, her hand was dropped. Even his touch felt cold, like touching stone.

As they talked to some church friends, he ruffled her hair, maybe now it was over.

But as they sat, he made sure that he sat as far from her as he could. She had gone into the pew first, sat down, then her little brother, but when he sat down he cuddled into her mother, far away at the other end of the pew. He sat right at the other end, the opposite end to her.

It was like she could feel the coldness radiating from him. And it wasn’t because of the chill of the church.

She was alone there.

As a distraction, she fished out a handkerchief from her sleeve, perhaps she could blow her nose and pretend she had a cold. That was it, pretend she had a cold and then no-one would know that she’d been a bad girl.

In the cold, she shivered, put away the handkerchief and took a deep breath.

As she looked around the church, the cold statues stared at her, she didn’t even get any comfort from the beautiful stained-glass windows. Jesus sat there, stonily ignoring her.

Quickly she moved up closer to her brother, she didn’t want to annoy him anymore. She never knew what to do to make him happy, or at least to stop him being so angry with her.

His wasn’t a shouty anger, it was quiet but even more to be feared.

There were times when she wished that he would hit her, get his anger out, and it all be over. It would be a relief, because although she would be hurt the bruises would fade, and all over quicker than some of his longer stony silences.

Sometimes his silence went on for days.

It was if she ceased to exist for him. There was something terrifying about that to her.

She never knew what it was all about, he never explained or spoke to her about it. It meant that she couldn’t make sure that she never did it, whatever it was, again.

Her mother and brother would be silent to her too, only speaking to her when they really had to.

If she had to speak to any of them, often they would pretend that they didn’t hear her. Her whispered question through dry lips, a nervous lick to moisten them, hopefully they would hear her the second time. She only spoke to them when she really had to, when she feared more trouble if she didn’t.

A one-word answer in response. Never looking at her, a cold tone -almost of disgust. Face a mask, except for a slight sneer. Body turned away, sometimes like the answer had been squeezed from them and it hurt. These were the times when she shrank.

Most often she wished that she could disappear.

Or, her favourite dream, that she was adopted and one day her real family would show up and love her, just as she was. She would have all the cuddles and kisses she ever wanted.

At these times it was only the cat and dog that still seemed to love her. Sure, she would feed the dog some of her cake, but it felt like a real love. In fact, the cat would make a beeline for her if she was upset. Just that little act of love was often enough to make those squashed down tears come out.

There were times when she wondered if she was even from this family. If she was adopted, then that would explain everything.

She saw something like love shown to her brother, he was sensitive, timid and very shy. Her mother, seemed to prefer him, she babied him. It was a contrast to how her mother treated her.

There was always something below the surface with her mother, something that bubbled up and over sometimes.

Just like with him, she never knew what would make her mother bubble over. But she hated it when she did. In those times, her mother would be vicious, vindictive and her dislike so clear.

A part of her didn’t understand why her mother disliked her, even hated her.

It didn’t really make sense. Most of the time she was a good girl, the threat her mother would make to tell him, when he came back from work enough to remind her to be good again.

It was always there that resentment; she never felt any affection from her mother. The housework, cooking, cleaning and all the chores much more important than she was.

But with her mother it didn’t feel like it mattered so much as it did with him.

There was something dangerous about his displeasure.

The fear was a black poison that seeped into everyone in that house, but she felt it the greatest.

So often, his bad mood, his silence, felt like it was targeted at her.

At times she thought she saw something like a smirk on her mother’s face when he was scarily silent to her. It was the closest she saw her mother to happy.

She felt utterly alone, confused and afraid.

He wasn’t silent all the time, in fact he could be smiling and fun. She remembered those times, and wished it was the way he was all the time. However, these times were short-lived. Just as quickly as he turned fun, he could turn cold.

She never knew where she stood with him.

In front of other people, especially her teachers, he was affectionate and teasing. He seemed loving, so she would relax for a moment, so pleased that his cold time was over.

But as soon as they were back in the car or at home, she would speak to him and fear would grip her heart again as his coldness returned.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, if her mother had been there, had warmed in some of the coldness. But her mother was just as cold, just in a different way.

When he was angry with her, the whole family was angry with her.

She never understood why.

In that chill church, she finally squashed down those stinging tears, took a breath and began singing the first hymn through trembling lips.

Hopefully, soon his stony silence would be over.

That’s all she had left, that tiny spark of hope, dim though it was.

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