“And you?”
She pointed to the bowl.
“Sometimes… I pick up the leftovers.”
I stared at her again.
The bones.
The crumbs.
And suddenly, I remembered every single phone call.
“Your wife is doing wonderfully. She’s eating well. She’s resting.”
A shiver ran through me.
“How long?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Since I came back from the hospital.”
One month.
A whole month.
For a month, I believed she was being well taken care of.
For a month, my mother took my money.
For a month, my wife ate… leftovers.
I clenched my fists.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lily looked up, fear evident in her eyes.
“Because… she’s your mother.”
These words are more impactful than anything else.
She wasn’t afraid of hunger.
She was afraid of hurting me.
I got up.
“Where is she?”
“She’s probably at Mrs. Carter’s,” Lily said in a low voice.
I grabbed my jacket. “Stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at her. “Fix that.”
Mrs. Carter’s house was two doors down.
I could hear laughter coming from the courtyard. A group of women were sitting and drinking coffee.
My mother was among them.
Laughing.
As if nothing had happened.
