UNBROKEN PROMISE

~31~ Ain't got those parts

The days that followed Oma’s garden planting had been brighter for her. There was a lightness in her step that hadn’t been there before, and Logan couldn’t help but notice. He’d often find himself stealing glances at her, watching as she worked on the garden with a quiet determination. There was something calming about the sight of her kneeling in the dirt, her cornrows tied back neatly, her hands moving carefully as she tended to the little seedlings Megan had helped her plant.

He didn’t say much—Logan never was one for words—but he’d occasionally linger by the barn longer than necessary, just to catch sight of her. There was a softness in his chest he didn’t quite know what to do with, and though he’d never admit it, seeing Oma a little happier made the ranch feel more like home.

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That morning, Oma had finished the laundry early. The rhythmic motion of scrubbing and wringing had always been soothing to her, a task she could lose herself in without much thought. But today, she’d felt a little off. A dull ache had started in her lower stomach while she was hanging the wet clothes on the line, and by the time she was finished, the ache had turned into something sharper.

When she went inside, she headed to the toilet, hoping a bit of privacy might help her collect herself. As she pulled down her drawers, her heart sank at the sight of the bloodstain marking the fabric. She groaned inwardly, recognizing the familiar sign of her monthly cycle.

Oma sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping as she reached for the cloth she kept for such times. It wasn’t that she minded her cycle—it was natural, after all—but the cramps always hit her harder than most, leaving her drained and irritable for days.

After cleaning up and changing into fresh drawers, she washed her hands and splashed some cold water on her face, hoping to shake off the discomfort creeping up her spine. But as she dried her hands on the kitchen towel, the sharp twinge in her belly reminded her that the worst was yet to come.

Determined not to let it ruin her day, Oma decided to get started on lunch. She tied her apron around her waist and gathered the vegetables from the pantry, setting them on the counter. The knife in her hand moved steadily as she chopped the carrots and onions, but the cramps were growing stronger by the minute. She paused a few times, pressing a hand to her stomach and breathing through the waves of pain, but the relief was fleeting.

As she diced the last onion, her stomach twisted sharply, and she let out a soft gasp, dropping the knife onto the cutting board. She clutched her middle, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the counter for support. Her vision blurred slightly, the pain becoming too much to bear.

Oma knew she couldn’t keep going like this. She wiped her hands on her apron and slowly made her way upstairs, each step feeling like a small mountain to climb. By the time she reached the bathroom, the nausea had hit her in full force. She barely made it to the toilet before retching, her body trembling as she emptied the contents of her stomach.

When it was over, she slumped back against the wall, her breathing shallow and uneven. The metallic taste in her mouth made her grimace, and she reached for the cup on the sink, rinsing her mouth with cold water.

She felt weak, like all the energy had been drained from her body, but the cramps were relentless. With shaky legs, she made her way to her room, collapsing onto the bed. Curling up on her side, she hugged her knees to her chest, her hands clutching at her stomach as the pain radiated through her.

The cool sheets against her skin offered little comfort, and she let out a quiet whimper, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the loneliness that came with it. Back when Papa was alive, he’d always made sure she had everything she needed during her cycle. He’d bring her tea, sit by her bedside, and tell her stories to distract her from the discomfort. Now, there was no one.