It was New Year's Eve, the kind of night that held promises of new beginnings. We sat around the dining table—just the seven of us: Me, Baba, Dad, Mum, Caleb, Satya and baby Ruby. It had been ages since we spent quality time together or even shared a meal. Daddy was always busy, darting from one political campaign to another, and Mummy Caleb? Her career had consumed her. Between office work and caring for baby Ruby, she barely had time or energy left for family.

Satya and Caleb took turns in the kitchen, and the meals they produced were nothing short of divine - savory, mouth-watering dishes that could have rivaled heaven itself.

I had just cleared my plate and headed upstairs to use the bathroom before leaving. I had rushed through dinner because I needed to get back home before my mom started calling. My parents were never married, but their love for me made me feel whole. Dad had always been supportive, and his wife welcomed me like family. I never felt like an outsider. Still, loyalty to my own mom had me rushing through my plate to avoid her lecture.

I had just turned on the tap at the washbasin when I heard a gunshot downstairs, followed by a loud scream. My body froze. Trembling, I managed to turn off the bathroom light and stayed still, careful not to make a sound.

“Don’t shoot! Please, I’ll give you money, anything!” Dad’s voice was cracked, pleading. His fear was evident but it was clear that money wasn’t what they were after. Hands shaking, I silenced my phone and texted Mom: Call the police. Don’t call me. Shooters are  here. I love you. I'm sorry.

Tears blurred my vision as her reply came swiftly: she had called the police and was on her way as well. I didn’t pray often, but my lips moved in fervent, silent whispers as I begged the heavens for mercy.

The second gunshot came. Then the third. By the fifth, there were no more screams, only Ruby’s cries, cutting through the suffocating silence. I could hear them arguing. "No witnesses," one of them barked. The final gunshot silenced Ruby, her fragile life snuffed out in an instant. I pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting a scream. My body felt cold, and tears poured down my cheeks uncontrollably. I heard them leave and drive away.

I waited a while before gathering enough courage to tiptoe downstairs. The sight was unbearable. Blood painted the walls, a grotesque mural of violence. Daddy had a bullet right in the middle of his forehead, his lifeless eyes seeming to stare at me. That image would haunt me forever.

I couldn’t stand the sight. My stomach churned, I staggered  outside, gasping for air. Reaching the estate gate, Mom pulled up in her car. She rushed to me, wrapping me in the only warmth left in my shattered world. Her embrace cradled me as I cried like I never had before.

The police arrived moments later, their flashing lights cutting through the darkness, but no light could dispel the shadow that had settled over the house. I couldn’t bear to look back at the lifeless bodies of my family, their laughter now silenced forever. Mom held me tightly, whispering words I couldn’t process, promising that everything would be okay.

Months have passed, but the memories are still fresh. The media called it a political hit, a theory that gained traction because Daddy was running for office. But I knew it wasn’t just politics—it felt personal, calculated, and devastatingly real.

The truth was, that night had taken more than their lives; it took a part of me that I wasn't sure I could ever get back. And though the world could speculate, mourn, and eventually forget, I couldn’t. I saw it every time I closed my eyes. That night didn’t just take my family, it carved itself into my memory in ways no time or therapy can erase. The screams, the gunshots, and the silence, they're mine alone to bear, my burden to carry, a night only I can remember.