Before my final year at the university, last summer, I had never seen the crack in our living room wall until that day. It was so small at the beginning of the day that I almost overlooked it. I thought that it was just the house showing its age.
The crack, however, kept coming back to my mind. It was a small crack, which had come from the corner but very recognizable, almost like a scar. My father replied, "Houses breathe. There is no need to worry." When Mom had a quick look, she took a long sigh, "The house is getting old. Just like us."
The crack didn’t stop growing. Soon it climbed toward the ceiling. It felt alive, like it was carrying a weight too heavy to hold.
My younger brother, Tobi, stared at it one evening. “It looks like the wall is broken,” he said.
“Not broken,” my father replied. “Just damaged.”
But I could see the worry in his face.
The wall wasn’t the only thing changing. Our home felt different too. My father stayed longer at work. My mother spoke less. Tobi kept himself busy with video games. And me? I carried the silence inside me. That looks as if is a mirror showing us what we're not supposed to see.
Once Sunday after the service, I was drawing in the living room. I had actually made a drawing of the wall with the crack running through it. When my mum saw it, she didn’t look pleased.
“What were you thinking drawing that?” she said.
“It seemed to be the most real thing,” I replied.
That evening, I could hear my parents fighting again. Their words were bitter, and the subject was money and responsibility. It had happened before. But this time I kept picturing how the fighting and the crack getting bigger were really two things growing together
A few days later, Tobi asked me a question. “Do you think the wall will fall?”
“No,” I told him, trying to sound sure.
“But it keeps growing,” he whispered. “What if one day everything breaks?”
I pulled him close but said nothing. He was too young to understand.
The crack had extended to the hallway. The plaster was covered with thin lines that resembled the branches of a tree. I couldn't help but experience that my chest was tightening each time I noticed them. Once I confided to my dad, “This is not the time, we should get a professional here.”
He gave a negative response with his head. “We can’t spend money on the house if we don’t have enough. Just be calm and we will be alright.”
“But it’s not just the wall,” I said. “It’s us.”
For a moment, he looked at me differently. Then he turned away. “Some things are better ignored.”
That was when I understood. He wasn’t only talking about the wall.
Next was the tempest. Rain pounded the roof. The gale rattled the windows. We remained seated in the lounge, hearing.
From the fissure, the leak grew. "It's the wall," Tobi murmured. And indeed, he was right. The wall was shedding tears. Similar to us, in a manner we understood.
After the storm, we cleaned together. My father taped plastic over the damp wall. My mother scrubbed the floor. I held the ladder. For the first time in months, we moved together as one. And it felt lighter, even with the damage still there.
Since that night, my whole perspective changed. I found it very helpful to pen down my thoughts in a journal, especially those things that I couldn’t say out loud. Mom was definitely on my side. She kept saying, “Writing is like a medicine for the soul.”
Tobi wasn’t very late in coming to the conclusion that he should also take up drawing. Tobi once depicted our home with a massive crack running down the middle, but in his painting, we were all standing outside, happy and smiling.
“Why are we smiling?” I asked.
“Because even if the house is broken, we’re still together,” he said.
That simple truth stayed with me.
Even after we repaired the crack, it was still visible, the crack didn't go away. There was still a faint scar. I was no longer bothered by it. It was a reminder of something very important. Harm is not always a sign that the end is near. Sometimes it means that we have been put to the test. Sometimes it means that we are still alive.
I once, I redrew the crack, this time I used red, blue, and green colors to fill it. It was like an art piece. Like the Japanese method of fixing broken pottery with gold, thus, making the cracks a part of the attraction.
When Tobi saw it, he smiled "It seems that the wall is adorned with jewelry."
"Perhaps it is," I replied.
My dad then laughed, a genuine laugh that I hadn't heard for a long time. My mum also laughed, Tobi too. The atmosphere in the room was nice again. The fissure was still present but we were together.
Upon reflection, I realize what the wall has imparted to me. The truth is, even families are not invincible and they are susceptible to breaking under some sorts of pressures. Silence, disputes, anxiety, etc. are all things that have been the subject of the families' lives and yet they have left their marks. However, cracks do not necessarily signify that we are going to break. At some times they can be the ones encouraging us to provide the attention needed, to repair what is broken and to keep holding still tighter. My scar from the wall is something I always touch when I am at home. I do not consider it an ugly one anymore. It is a part of our journey.
Cracks don’t just show damage. They also show where the light can get in.