“Why would you do that, did you not realise how painful it would be for me to hear my other calling out for me when I thought that she was dead, to try to save her, to find that it wasn’t even her. Do you even know what you did to me?” I asked her, my voice cracking as I said the word “dead”, my mother is dead, probably.
The woman cupped my face in her hands, looking into my eyes with a stare that seemed to tell her own story. I almost felt sorry for her, it was clear that she had been hurt before. It was a powerful moment, we both stopped moving, and all of our grudges seemed to disappear, as I realised, she was alone, but she didn’t have to be. I could look after her, and she could look after me. I wasn’t going to be alone anymore. Then the moment ended, and we awkwardly moved apart.
“I’ve just realised something,” she said “I don’t even know your name. Isn’t that terrible? I suppose we were just caught up in all of the adrenaline, we didn’t even have time to introduce ourselves. I’m Kalia.” She reached out her hand to shake mine. I met her hand in the middle, shaking it; it all seemed too professional, and formal, like the beginning of an interview.
“Hi, I’m Mindy, or Mimi. I don’t mind what you call me. I’m from America. I came to visit my Grandmother for her 70th Birthday, how about you?” She looked at me, I could see the sympathy in her eyes, and I realised that I had to forgive her. She hadn’t done what she did out of spite, she was scared, and that’s how I was feeling when I called out for my mother. Perhaps we were similar after all.
