I have to stop myself from physically recoiling. I miss the times when our dinner tables were filled with lively discussions and debates. WhenIwas in on the meaningful glances, and not the object of them.
‘So, Maya. How was your day today? You went out, right?’ Amma asks when she notices me looking at her. The smile on her face is completely fake, and I can see the worry behind her eyes.
‘It was fine,’ I say. I wish I had something to offer, but I can’t tell them that I spent the day scrolling through online hate about myself while lying in bed. Exactly as I have done every single day since I got home.
It doesn’t help that in the first week of my return, journalists had hounded me, trying to get the scoop on why I had really retired. Some of them had even found out my parents’ address, ambushing Amma and Abba with questions.Things had since died down, but the news articles full of pure speculation hadn’t stopped.
Worse, the Bangladeshi aunties and uncles had been calling my parents nonstop, trying to find out exactly what had happened with me and my career. I’m sure they’re not loving having to field that line of questioning. Even though it’s mostly just morbid curiosity that’ll fade soon.
‘Did you do some unpacking?’ Abba asks, a little too casually.
‘No, not yet.’ My voice comes out sharper than I intend it to. It’s been two whole weeks since I’ve come back home and I’m fast running out of underwear, but the idea of unpacking feels overwhelming. It feels like admitting defeat.
‘We can help you unpack if you need us to,’ Amma says gently. The kindness in her voice makes me feel more angry than soothed.
‘I don’t need help unpacking, Amma. I’m a grown woman who can unpack on her own,’ I say. A grown woman who has no job and has moved back into her parents’ house, I think to myself. A grown woman who is somehow right where she was as a teenager.
‘OK. Just … offering.’ Amma and Abba exchange another glance across the table, and that’s about all I can take for one dinnertime conversation.
With a sigh, I stand, despite my half-full plate. I’m not even that hungry, if I’m being honest with myself. I have missed Amma’s cooking over the past few years – obviously – but the taste of it now reminds me less of home and more of my failure.
‘I think I’ve lost my appetite. I’m feeling a little sick,’ I mumble, grabbing my plate and walking over to the compost bin to dump the rest of it out. I toss the plate itselfin the sink before hurrying up the stairs. All the while, my parents say nothing, even though I know the idea of wasting food is probably killing them.
My old bedroom is not the sanctuary that it once used to be. My two suitcases from America are still standing by the door. The walls are plastered with old paraphernalia from when I was a teenager. Posters of the bands I used to listen to – Evanescence, Breaking Benjamin and Paramore – and merch of my favourite football team, Arsenal. There are the old football trophies lining the shelf above my desk:MAYA ALAMproudly displayed on all of them. And then there’s the stack of farewell cards from my family and friends – half of whom have moved away or started families now. The cards say things like,Good luck, Maya, you are going to kill it!andI always knew you were meant for amazing things!
It hurts to look at them. It feels like I’m staring my failure in the face every day.
I pick up the cards one by one with trembling fingers – the bright, colourful flowers and balloons on each of them now seem mocking – and shove them into the bin in the corner by my old desk. It’s bad enough that I have my parents’ sympathy-filled gazes to stare at every day – I can’t look at these cards too.
With that done, I toss myself onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling and taking a deep breath.
‘This isn’t the end of the world,’ I say to myself, mostly because I need to hear it. Being back home with my very loving parents is definitely not a bad thing. Sure, I may be unemployed now and, yes, maybe all my dreams have been dashed at the ripe age of twenty-eight. But that doesn’t make me a failure, even if Ihavetechnically failed. I mayhave had a budding career, but now, in the blink of an eye, it’s all gone. And it’s because of me – because I’m not strong enough to persevere through all the rumours, the criticisms, the blame, the jeers.
I turn to my side, glancing out the window. This is the view that I’ve had growing up my entire life. The back garden with the little shed; Amma’s prize rose bush and the overgrown birch tree from Mrs Sardar’s garden that my parents hate but would never complain about. I try not to dwell on all the times I kicked around my football out there, how Amma fussed about ruining her roses, how Mrs Sardar always tried to hold the ball hostage whenever I kicked it into her garden. They were simple times when I had such bright dreams for everything.
If only that Maya knew where she would end up.
My alarm goes off at its usual time the next morning, as it has done ever since I got back. I turn it off but make no move to get up. The idea of getting up, of starting my day – whatever that means now – fills me with dread.
This is what things have been like since I returned home two weeks ago. It’s like I’m stuck in a weird limbo – halfway between still being that girl who woke up early in the morning for training and the one who can barely even muster up the energy to get out of bed these days.
I turn onto my side, blinking at the thin rays of light peeking through the curtain. I miss the routine of still being a Viking. I miss getting up at the crack of dawn, the cold shower and cup of strong coffee that woke me up. I miss the early-morning jog. The weekly scheduled workouts: weight training on Mondays and Wednesdays, team training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I miss having thingsto do, people to see. I miss having agoal,things to look forward to.
I used to think that having everything scheduled to a tee was something I would struggle with, but I quickly learned that I actually thrived on it. Having everything set out, trying to figure out how to push myself to be better and better during every single training session. In the beginning, I could feel how my body was changing. I could feel myself becoming more competent, a better player. On the field, I was getting faster, better at tackling and at defending the ball.
I still remember my first match for the Vikings. My jangled nerves for the hours before. I could barely hold down any food. I didn’t really know any of my teammates then and I wished I had somebody to talk to.
Or, rather, I wished that the person I wanted to speak to wanted to speak to me too.
But I had pushed through the nerves and even scored a goal. Afterwards, the girls from the team cheered at how well I had played, and we had gone out for drinks to celebrate. Not just the match that we had won, but my first match with them. I thought then that this was it. That was going to be my life going forward, and everything would be OK.
But it wasn’t just about the game. My naive young self couldn’t have even comprehended back then all of the other stuff. The things that I don’t miss at all. Like the crowd jeering at me during every game, which I tried so hard to tune out. The journalists with their probing questions. The videos that captured me in my worst moments and spread like wildfire. The comments …
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of my thoughts. I tug it close to me, wondering if I have snoozed my alarm insteadof turning it off. But what I actually see is a text from Isabel.
Isabel: Good morning
Isabel: I know you’re seeing these texts and one of these days you’re going to have to get up off your ass and start talking to me again!!!
