The Quiet Inheritance - By Cassandra Wijesuria

Written By: Cassandra Wijesuria

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Cassandra Wijesuria presents us with "The Quiet Inheritance," a compelling short story that delves into the complexities of familial bonds. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative unfolds within a household marked by unspoken traditions and the quiet endurance of generational expectations. The piece explores themes of familial duty, inherited pain, and the courageous journey toward breaking cycles of suffering.

About the Work

"The Quiet Inheritance" is a profound exploration of family dynamics and the burdens passed down through generations. Wijesuria's narrative is rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth, capturing the struggle between tradition and personal growth. The story's mood is reflective and somber, yet it carries a hopeful message about the power of self-awareness and change. Through authentic dialogue and poignant moments, the reader is invited to witness a journey of healing and the courage to redefine one's legacy.

The Quiet Inheritance

Original Submission by Cassandra Wijesuria

THE QUIET INHERITANCE

By: Cassandra Wijesuria

(978 words)

Tok Mah always said the anak bongsu needed more.

Biar dia ambil dulu, Tok Mah would say, spooning extra lauk onto Mak Cik Rohani’s plate. Her demands were made with such a cheerful tone that one would think it was never an order. To us in this household, this had softened into a habit.

My most outstanding memory of Mak Cik Rohani was that she was filthy. She took food up to her room and left it to rot for days. The three cats she claimed to love left their feces all over, and she never bothered to clean up.

But what Mak Cik Rohani lacked in hygiene, she made up for in charm and beauty. Charming where necessary, sharp but not quite cutting, all polished to a diamond sheen with her beauty. Tok Mah would laugh the loudest in the room, never once correcting her.

But while she preened and charmed outsiders, Mak Cik Rohani turned cold towards her siblings, particularly to the eldest sister, my mother, Nurul.

Rohani adik sibuk ni, Tok Mah would say, excuses dripping like honey. To my mother, all warmth disappeared as Tok Mah made her clean Mak Cik Rohani’s room.

Nurul, my mother, was filial in all the ways an eldest daughter could be, and took the brunt of all Tok Mah’s orders and insults.

Tok Mah’s favorite line of dismissal was “Jangan sensitive sangat” when my mother would walk away after yet cleaning Mak Cik Rohani’s room. Mak’s jaw was stiff, hands clamped at her sides as she walked away. Tok’s brusqueness floated longer than my dreams. Mak never answered back.

Mak spoke of her childhood the way people spoke of the weather, unavoidable but survivable. Tok Mah had always been harsh; the expectations of the eldest daughter passed down a tale as old as time.

As a child, I could never avoid the stories Mak told me. I had no advice to offer, only ears too young to understand.

That’s why I’m strong, she would say. Her voice carried pride, not bitterness. Strength, to her, was the ability to endure without complaint.

Try as I might, an only child like me could never relate.

Mak raised me too carefully. When I faltered in speaking, Mak Cik Rohani joked that I was becoming “bodoh” and Tok Mah agreed too readily.

Mak corrected me constantly, always giving reasons:

I’m telling you this for your own good

Because I said so!

I feed you. I clothe you. So you must obey.

Like my mother, I accepted everything.

When I got older, distance helped me. I tried to understand what my mother was going through.

It wasn’t until my university days, when I went to a friend’s house, that I learnt an alien language.

Open dialogue was like watching a rare beast come out of hiding, preening as though it had belonged there all along. I learnt that saying no did not meet out consequences or punishment. Asserting yourself sounded like awkward therapy talk, but it left me wanting more.

The allure of this language was simple and yet so profound. I brought this unfamiliar vernacular home with me. But my attempt was more like a lumbering village idiot.

When I tried to recreate a certain lauk, Mak scolded me, and I blinked back tears.

“You’re too sensitive,” my mother had snapped. The tone was the same as those years ago.

“You sound like Tok Mah,” I snapped back, my resolve broken. I tried to apologise, but my mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.

My mother quieted, wounded. “After everything I went through, and you dare compare me with her? Have I not suffered enough?”

It was a chink in her armor.

Anak jangan melawan ibu, Mak said, reverting to the ways of my Tok. Syurga bawah tapak kaki ibu. Religion drowned out reason.

I stopped trying to convince her.

***

Years later, it was like waking from a trance.

It was Iris Maryam’s third birthday. My husband and I, busy with everything, had not noticed our daughter disappeared from her festivities.

I found Iris in the master bathroom, A4 paper and markers at her side, thinking carefully like a little Picasso.

“Sayang?” I asked her, “What are you planning to draw?”

Iris’ quivering lip gave her away.

“What’s wrong, baby? Do you not like this party?”

She sniffed, tears spilling like little pearls.

The phrase don’t be so sensitive awakened like a dark horse in my mind’s mouth.

I saw then what had been passed down to me for years. Tok had wielded her cruelty like a monarch. Mak had endured it as all generals do. She saw herself as a survivor, not a victim.

I bit my tongue, “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I thought you would have liked a big princess party.”

“No, mama. Too loud.”

I nodded quietly, “That’s alright, darling girl. Shall I send everyone home and just give you cake?”

My child lit up immediately, “Mama, please give me cake?”

I let out a watery chuckle, “OK, sayang. You stay here drawing while Papa and I send everyone home, OK?”

Iris returned to her drawing before I left, tear tracks still on her face.

In the end, my husband and I sit with our daughter and her Disney princess cake. We sing happy birthday, but Iris whispers, “No singing, mama.” I comply, and she promptly blows her candle.

Some believe suffering makes you stronger. I have learned that if left unaddressed, it does nothing.

Tok Mah is long gone. Mak Cik Rohani is estranged; years of preference and charm congealed into venom, eroding whatever sense of family we once had.

Mak’s battle scars remain invisible but are still there when an unbidden memory resurfaces.

Pain does not dissolve when endured. It looks for a new residence.

I decide that this quiet inheritance will end with me.

THE END

The Quiet Inheritance/

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates diverse voices in the literary arts. Participants from around the world submit their original works in categories including poetry, short stories, and essays. The competition serves as a platform for writers to share their unique perspectives and contribute to the global conversation on creativity and expression.

Thank you, Cassandra Wijesuria, for sharing "The Quiet Inheritance" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your exploration of familial relationships and personal transformation resonates deeply, offering readers both reflection and inspiration. We appreciate your contribution to this year's competition.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.