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11:59pm,
Saturday, 3rd of June 2017.
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To the woman who birthed me,
This morning I finally gathered enough courage to knock on your door.
When you opened the door you were surprised to find me awake but still you smiled and let me in.
I asked if there was anything I could help you with and you handed me a brush for your hair.
"Do you remember those mornings when you'd keep snoozing till I'd push you out of the bed." I said to your reflection in the mirror as I brushed down your long hair.
You gave a short laugh and shook your head. "I remember, that old lady would shout at me from her house to stop being lazy and get up. God those paperlike walls."
I miss those days. I wanted to say but smiled at you through the mirror instead.
After minutes of filled with reminiscing and making fun of your different makeup tools, you finally left for work.
I sat on your chair and stared long and hard at the mirror, wondering if we just shared a moment.
But as we talked about old times, I realized that while I reflected back in nostalgia and yearning for those days, you did too, but with gladness that they were over and in the past.
Maybe it wasn't a moment after all.
Maybe, just like our love, it was one-sided.
Letting out a long breath, I walked around your vast room. The walk in closet, one part of the wall held a large shelf that contained only your shoes.
The flat screen TV, the queen sized bed, the cutout office at the side.
The life you've always wanted.
There was a paper on top of your desk facing down and without much thought I picked it up.
It was a doctors report from a blood test, with my now piqued curiosity, I read on. It had your name as the patient and my heart rate sped up a bit.
I read through the different columns.
Malaria: Negative.
HIV: Negative.
I placed a hand on my chest to calm myself as my eyes flitted from one column to the other.
Pregnancy: Positive.
I sat on the chair and read again and again.
What did this mean?
Your Forgotten,
Mola.
YOU ARE READING
Your Forgotten
Short StoryWith conflicting and pent-up emotions, 14 year old Mola writes letters in the middle of the night, hoping to make sense of it all and moreover hoping her mother will one day notice.
