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I cannot remember the number of times I would arrive at my mother’s house and leave from the gate. Extra pairs of shoes at the front door always gave away her visitors.

 

I could not bear the love in my mother’s eyes when she would hold my hand and pull me close to sit with her while I answered the same questions again & again.

 

But more so I couldn’t bear the shame buried in the wrinkles of her hands. The shame of not being able to defend her daughter was enough just the way she was.

 

Her shame spread like cancer through me. Her suffering, killing me.

 

whereisshyamni@gmail.com

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