“No children?” I demand, lost in her story.
“No.” She pauses, allowing the information to sink in. “He walked home every day after work filled with despair. His life was worthless, he was sure. One day, his normal route was blocked by a mudslide. The monsoons had just come through, making the road impassable. He hesitated to take an alternate route, for it was said that path was filled with all forms of evil. From bandits to dark magic, the tall tales were plenty. But accepting his providence and whatever may follow, he took it, prepared to face the danger he was sure was coming.”
“Stupid decision,” I say, common sense demanding to be heard.
“Trisha,” Mama warns. “The story?”
“Go on.” I settle back.
“He could barely see. The moon was hiding behind dark clouds, and there were no streetlights. But he continued on, growing prouder of his bravery with each step. Soon he started to feel like a new man, capable of anything. Until he accidentally kicked a large rock. A sound stopped him where he stood. He came face-to-face with a snake. Now this wasn’t just an ordinary snake. It was the king of cobras, and it had been disturbed by this man.”
She pauses while I take a sip of water.
“Their face-off validated all this man’s fears—that his life was worthless, that he was meant to die a horrible death, that only bad could come to him. All of it, right there in the eyes of this snake,” she continues. “As the snake lunged toward him, its teeth bared, the man did what any normal man would do. He ran. So fast that he almost got away. But the man kept his head turned back, watching for the snake as he ran, sure it would keep up with him. Because he did that, he missed the boulder sitting in his way. Hitting his head, he bled to death within minutes.”
“What happened to the snake?” I demand, now captivated by the story.
“The villagers found the man in the morning. A few feet away, they found a coiled rope someone had dropped. There was no snake.”
“Mama,” I say, confused. Before I can continue, she takes my hand.
“Beti,” Mama says, her eyes meeting mine. “What he did to you can never be undone. But don’t let it color your life. Don’t let his actions or his way of living become your truth.” She gets out of the bed and cradles my face in her hands. “You are your truth. You have always been and will always be your own woman. And I couldn’t be more proud of the woman you are.” Slowly bending down, she puts her weathered lips on my cheek and offers me a simple kiss.
“Mama,” I say, stopping her as she starts to leave. “Would you have told me? If I hadn’t come to you, would you have come to me?”
She hesitates, myriad emotions dancing across her face. “I didn’t want to. I wanted to bury it as I believed you had. I wanted you to keep being happy,” she admits.
“That wasn’t your decision to make,” I say, angry that she had assumed it was.
“Maybe not,” she admits, her struggle clear. “But given what he had done and how it might affect you, it was the only decision I thought to make.”
“Did you know?” I demand, needing to lash out. She is an easy target, and I am relentless. “Did you have any idea when it happened?”
She drops her head, clasping her hands together. Slowly she shakes her head. “I knew he was capable of causing great heartache, but what he did to you . . .” She shudders. Raising her head, she meets my gaze. “You have to believe me—I had no idea. If I had . . .” she stops, unable to finish the sentence, both of us left to wonder what she would have done. A man who held all the power—what were we supposed to fight him with?