Chapter 8: The Loss
The day her mother died, the world went quiet.
There had been no warning—not really. No doctor to explain what was happening. No final goodbye spoken in full awareness. Just the slow, steady fading of a woman who had given everything she had until there was nothing left to give.
That morning, the compound felt unusually still. The air was heavy, like it was holding its breath. Mary had woken early, as always, and tiptoed to her mother's room to check on her. She half expected to find her resting as usual, curled on her side, wrapped in the same faded wrapper she wore during her long days of illness.
But the room felt different. Colder. Her mother's chest no longer moved. Her eyes—those warm, kind eyes—were closed forever.
Mary didn't scream.
She didn't even cry, not at first. She just stood there, staring at the woman who had carried her, fed her, protected her. The woman who had taught her how to be gentle, how to be strong, how to pray.
It was Rose who found her standing there and rushed to call the others. Soon the house was filled with footsteps, voices, wailing. Neighbors came. Family members gathered. Women began the rituals of mourning—covering mirrors, sweeping the compound, lighting candles. The children were pulled aside, given water, told to rest.
But Mary couldn't rest.
She wandered outside and sat beneath the mango tree in the corner of the yard. It was the same tree her mother had once sat under to tell them stories. She pressed her back against the bark and let the tears come—hot, silent, and endless.
That day marked the end of something sacred.
With her mother's passing, the balance of the home collapsed. Everything familiar suddenly felt strange. Meals tasted different. The house felt colder. Even the sky looked duller.
Mary didn't know how to name the grief she felt. But she carried it in her chest like a stone.
She had lost her guide, her comfort, her first home.
And though she didn't know it yet, life was about to grow even harder.