It began

Three Months Ago.

I dared to dream without fear, the fear of running, the fear of hiding, the fear of goodbye. Ten years had passed, and we were not on the run. I felt for a moment, that we were safe in Douro Valley. For a moment, I thought I could live like every normal teenage girl with big dreams.

My life was far from perfect, but I could not ask for anything more than a complete and happy family. This was my home, my heaven and my world. In it were the joys, peace and the restrictions. It was the perfect blend of sugar-salt solution.

Through the window beyond my headboard, I could see passersby, but today was different not many people moved around.

'What could be wrong?' I wondered. 'Did I wake up late? No!' I laughed.

Mom would not let me remain in bed this long. It's she needed me to make breakfast or to water her garden. I stretched my limbs and yawned at the same time.

I fumble through the drawer beneath the lampshade on my bedside, searching for my red diary. I took it out before switching off the light.

It was a bright day and I was inclined to write. So I placed my closest friend on my bed. As strange as it was, that friend was an inanimate trustworthy object. It was a diary, the keeper of my precious secrets.

I sat up, resting my back gently on a pillow, which was pressed against the headboard. With a second pillow on my thighs. I put the diary on it, turned to a fresh page and grabbed a black ink pen. Never did I know that I was beginning a new phase of my life.

Dear Diary,

If you could choose an appropriate name for me, what would it be? what would you call me?

For a moment I stopped writing, glanced at the mirror adjacent to me. It briefly reflected the grey oversized cardigan and black pyjama that warmly shielded my body from the morning cold.

It also reflected my messy bed and the red duvet which laid beside me, exposing my well-manicured feet. Below the brown wooden bedframe was a pillow which laid peacefully like sleeping beauty on the wooden floor.

My small squared room seemed a lot smaller owing to the many unused properties that legally belonged to the store. But mom had insisted, I leave them untouched.

My eyes strayed to a hip of scattered overly read books and fashion magazine which reclined on my dusty shoes.

The previous day, I had practically studied a variety of old fashion magazines, these included: Glamour, Marie Claire, and Stylo Urbano. My favourite was the Vogue Portugal but I could not afford one.

Well, I loved the pictures and designer products which I still couldn't afford. Not only was I keen on improving my fashion sense, but I was also positive that I would be accepted into the University of Coimbra and there, was my freedom. The freedom to live without fear, the freedom to make my dreams of becoming a journalist, come true.

I had lazily left the hip of magazines on the two pairs of Jechobed's high school shoes which were indiscreetly placed beside my closet.

My very gut knew mom would be pissed off if she saw these mess. so I quickly wrapped up my writing.

Diary, I think my name should be goddess Athena the fairest of all Greece. (I winked at the impossible thought of being as beautiful as Athena.) But sorry to disappoint you, life chose a very strange and unusually name for me.

Through the divine machinations of my Jewish father, I was named after a woman that happened to be a daughter of a man named Job, in the Hebrew scriptures.

Diary, it's not like my name is bad but I hate it, for many reasons. Firstly, it's too difficult to pronounce. Can you believe that not until recently I couldn't pronounce my name correctly?

I recalled those days in High school when some school mates and teachers would stab and hack my name into many pieces, yet fail to pronounce it.

Mrs Poala, the mathematics teacher once called me 'Ken-hen-ha-kuk' and everyone mocked and laughed at me. At a point, my name became the punchline in conversations, with the regular topic: "pronouncing the name, Ker'en-hap'puch.

They called me Ker'en-hap'puch, I am the small farm girl with blue blood and almond brown eyes. (I chuckled at the thought of that description) I wish dad had considered beautiful Portuguese names as Paloma, Olena, Tatiana, Sadie, Katherine or just any name but Kerenhappuch.

When I was younger, Dad told me that, names had a powerful effect on the bearer. I then thought, that maybe, I could have been more confident, or, felt more beautiful, and I would have had lots of friends if my name was better than Kerenhappuch.

Now I know I'm wrong, perhaps, it wasn't the name which made me feel that way, it was my psychology.

Being from a home that was unlike any of my peers. I had many restrictions; I was not allowed to possess a phone, to attend parties, to have a boyfriend, to keep late nights, to even visit friends. Dad always wanted my sister and me indoors. Mom was the only one allowed to move about freely, even Dad could not have that luxury.

After the incident, my sister left for school and I was alone until Babette became my best and only friend. This was only possible because she was my next-door neighbour.

Sadly, it's been two years since we spoke. I try not to recall what happened that night because It breaks my heart that a simple 'Sorry' had cost us our friendship.

The thought then flash my mind on how she called me "Weirdo" Gosh! it's annoying," I thought. She was not alone though, from a young age many people saw my family and me as weirdos and I got used to it.

Some in the neighbourhood thought it was my religion that made my family different but it was more than that.

Truly, not only was my dad an Israeli, he was a strong adherent of the Jewish traditions. Therefore, as my father's daughter, I was fully Jewish.

There was more to my family than any could comprehend. So whatever people said I didn't care although it affected me emotionally and sometimes it made me cry.

If only they knew my story. If only they knew the secret of Nathan's family then maybe they would look passed our shortcomings and see what great people we are.

(To be continued...)

I heard the sounds of footsteps drawing closer and I imagined that it was mom. This drew me to the realization that I had overstayed in bed and the consequence was not so vague.

I swiftly tossed my Diary aside, sliding pass the foot of my bed, unto the hip of books which laid beside my closet. In no time I fixed my bed, although it was not anything close to perfect.

The pink bedsheet roughly covered the bed and the pillows were slantly placed against the headboard. I quickly adjusted the folds on the sheet but, the edges remained as messy as my hair. I groaned as I let go of the sheet. I was already fed up of the bed's inability to fix itself!

I turned to the hip of dirty clothes which laid for days pleading relentlessly for a kind wash. I had convinced myself of the need to do my laundry as if I didn't know. I smiled at my insensitivity. What could I possibly do? 'Being lazy sucks when you're poor' I comforted myself as I placed my red duvet over the hip.

There were sounds of birds chirping in the yard. I drew the sky blue floral drapes aside and the sight outdoor was divine. It had rained the previous night and the blooming vines cascaded down the valleys and ascended on the distant musty mountains.

I saw a few lines of Cider trees across the untarred road. It so happened that this was the view I got each time I woke up and I always love the view. Now I'm grateful that no one agreed to build on the land opposite us because it descended into a ditch.

On my left side was the hedge fence that separated Babette's cabin from mine. Sometimes, I would peek through the window to get a glimpse of my beloved friend. My childish pride would not let me speak to her. "That's not important" I lied to myself again.

It was planting season and Dad had said that Don Goncalo was making an expansion in the farm so I guessed every hand was on deck. I turned to the other side of the room and saw that my door was left ajar. Just then, I caught sight of mom rushing to her room, and dad rushed after her.

I'm sure they had been in the sitting room, only God knew what dad was so busy with, that by this time of the day, he was still at home. In any case, I felt slightly concerned to see my mom that way, so I quickly went out.

My bare feet on the wooden floor made almost no sound as I tiptoed towards my parent's room. I stood there peeking through a tiny hole behind the door. Mom was facing the window with her hands folded around her, while dad was seated on the bed casting a sad gaze at the floor.

My eyes widened to see my mom in tears as she turned to my dad. Then came their voices, piercing through my ears.