The woman's face paled as she watched her son collapse to his knees. His knife skittered onto the asphalt, his chin hanging limp against his chest. With a firm shove from my boot, he slumped onto his side. The wound, the blood—all of it was hidden by the heavy shadows cast by the collapsed highway above us.
I hoisted my rifle onto my shoulder, my gaze shifting to the mother. Our eyes locked. I started toward her.
She scrambled back, palms biting into shards of glass. "Get away from me!" she shrieked.
"Shh." I kneeled down in front of her. Even if she had an escape route that didn't consist of concrete boulders and jutting steel wire, she wouldn't have been able to run with her paralyzed legs. Knowing I had to corner her like this left a bitter taste in my mouth. It made me feel evil.
I took a deep breath and sat my weapon down to my right, placing my hands empty on my thigh. "He was going to kill you," I explained. I used my softest, clearest voice. It didn't calm the wildness in her golden eyes.
"You're the one with the gun! You're the monster here!"
"I know. And I'm not proud of it. But things have changed." When I noticed she stopped trying to retreat, I dug into one of my pockets, withdrawing my locket, a gift from my father. I cradled it in my hands. Perhaps it was cliché of me to hold onto it for so long. But the woman had to know what I knew, and what I wanted from her. And what better way than to show her her husband's own handiwork?
It opened with a click, and I pulled out the folded photo and short letter. I handed the mother—my mother—all three. She wouldn't ever know who I was. I knew this would be my first—and last—interaction with her. I was okay with that. I had come to terms with it a long time ago.
She took the items from me, unfolding the paper cautiously.
"I found this a long time ago," I said. "I know who you are. I know why they're doing this. And I desperately—" I made sure she was looking at me "—desperately need your help to fix it."
I watched as tears formed in her eyes with each reread, with each flicker back to the boy she thought was her son. A shaking hand pressed against her mouth.
"How did you—" she gasped. "How did you find this?"
I didn't answer her. We sat in silence.
After a long, long time, she crumpled the letter in a fist. Tears bled through the pages now. "You tell me all this, you ask all of this from me, but I can't even walk!"
I placed a hand on her shoulder. Our eyes locked one last time—her golden ones with my own. "That's okay. Let me be your legs," I said. "Let me be your legs, and we can stop this war."
