Chapter 7: A Mother's Sickness
Mary began to notice it in small ways.
At first, it was how her mother stopped singing while cooking—something she used to do every morning, her soft voice rising above the sound of boiling water and crackling firewood. Then came the days when she stayed in bed longer than usual, her movements slower, her voice weaker.
"Maybe she's just tired," Mary thought. After all, raising eight children was no small task.
But soon, the signs became harder to ignore. Her mother's face grew pale, her arms thinner. The strong hands that once moved confidently through laundry and cooking began to tremble. The woman who had once been the pillar of the home began leaning on her daughters for strength.
Mary's heart grew heavy with worry.
She would watch from the doorway as her mother sat on a mat, her shoulders hunched, her eyes far away. Sometimes she would cough—a deep, dry sound that made Mary's chest hurt just to hear it. The younger children didn't seem to understand. But Mary did. She didn't have a name for the sickness, but she knew it was serious. And she was afraid.
One night, Mary lay awake and heard her mother praying—softly, slowly, like someone who was trying not to cry. "God," her mother whispered, "look after my children. Give them strength. Give them peace. And if I go before I'm ready, let them be safe."
Mary held her breath under the thin cloth that served as her blanket. She bit her lip and blinked away the tears stinging her eyes. She wanted to rush into her mother's room, to hold her hand, to say, Please don't leave us.
But she stayed where she was.
In the days that followed, neighbors came and went more often. Women brought herbs, soup, and silent stares. The air around the house changed—thicker, quieter, filled with unspoken fear.
Mary kept doing her chores. She kept helping with the little ones. But inside, something began to break—a worry that wouldn't go away.
She was still so young, but she could feel it: the shadow of loss was getting closer.