Before the third daughter she’d raised went away, she took her to her mother’s house to say goodbye, in case she never returned from her travels or her grandma passed before she came home.
She would’ve liked her to say goodbye to her paternal grandmother, too, but couldn’t get the woman to see them. When she told her the news over the phone, the woman said she didn’t care what the girl did with her life. She wasn’t even sure she was her son’s daughter: she’d heard from his mouth that things between them hadn’t been going well around the time the girl was conceived.
The fact she was the female version of her murdered son proved nothing. And she wasn’t interested in getting a DNA test done either. As far as she was concerned, the girl was probably the daughter of some lover her mother had had at the time. Maybe even of the man who’d murdered her son. It wouldn’t surprise her if it turned out she was the one who’d plotted his death. There must be some reason why she hadn’t cried inconsolably at the funeral, like any other wife would’ve.
It wasn’t her job to explain herself. Besides, that wasn’t why she’d called. And she didn’t want her to give the girl money either, or a dress for her travels. She’d got in touch because the traveling girl’s dad would’ve liked them to inform her, to take her into account.
How did she know? What gave her the impression she knew her son?
Because they’d been together a long time. Though most of it had been in short bursts over an extended period, it’d been enough to get to know the sort of person he was. An understanding that had been confirmed during the time they lived together after the war.
Hearing her talk about her son like that annoyed her. The mother thought this woman must be desperate, that she was almost certainly saying these things as a way to get close to her and win her trust, so that later she could lament how poorly he’d treated her in the hopes of getting some money in return. But she wouldn’t get a penny out of her. What little she would’ve left her son would go to those who deserved it: the children from his first marriage, the children born to the woman she approved of. It didn’t matter that the woman was already married to somebody else who’d taken the kids to live in another country. If they ended up not claiming it, she’d give it to charity instead. The church could make good use of what little she had. She’d better mark her words and not think of ringing her again. With her son dead, there was nothing binding them together anymore.
The girls agreed. Whenever their mother insisted on taking them to that woman’s house to say hello and show her how big they’d grown, like their dad used to, they’d plead for a rain check. They’d come up with any excuse not to go so often because it was never a pleasant experience.
It would’ve been worse but for their grandmother’s husband, who was always happy to see them and play with them. He asked them about school and the chickens they raised. Now and then, he gifted them a dress that was never in their size or to their taste, and they always thanked him because their mom had taught them to be polite to everyone, even when they weren’t polite back. About their grandpa, she said they had to understand that he was an elderly man and had never had any daughters. What they should appreciate about the presents he gave was the effort involved. The best thing they could do to show their appreciation was to give him a gift in return. Something they made themselves.
The eldest took him her drawings. The second granddaughter picked wildflowers for him from the side of the path and radishes from her vegetable garden. The third always said she’d do his hair. She offered to make it look like her mom’s or like any of her sisters’. The littlest girl offered to be his assistant—even though her sisters’ grandmother had made it crystal clear she wasn’t their granddaughter—because she thought he was nice and he always lifted her up in his arms like the other girls. He’d crouch down so they could run the brush through his hair, make a mess of it, and tell him he looked exactly like the model they’d selected for that day. Then he’d hand them some sweeties and send them out to play a while with the animals they kept in their backyard, so he could have a chat with their mom.
He’d ask her how she was doing and if there was anything she needed or any way he could help. She always turned him down, claiming she was fine. She didn’t want his wife to think they came to them out of self-interest, or for him to take on his son’s duties. Had the son died with no intention of leaving her and his daughters, she might have accepted his support. But he’d been on the cusp of leaving them, and so she thought the right thing to do was to act as if he had.
Though the father insisted he’d have taken responsibility for their futures even if his son had left them, and she should accept his offer for this reason, she refused to let herself be helped. She didn’t want any trouble, or for there to be any more tension between her and her mother-in-law. A day came when he didn’t want it anymore either and quit. Just as his son would have done with his own wife. That day, he packed his things and left without saying anything or leaving an address.
They didn’t hear news of him until he died. He’d sent someone to let her know where he was buried in case any of the girls wanted to leave flowers or drawings for him. To his wife, he said only that she shouldn’t come see him, not even to his grave. He didn’t want her disturbing his peace. To this end, he’d prepared all the paperwork needed in order to sort out the matter of his belongings and his new marital status.
The mother assumes he left something for the girls and the grandmother hasn’t wanted to give it them. She believes this is why she’s always on the defensive, insisting they’re no relations, and treating them as if they were strangers. She’s been told she can find out in the public records, that all she needs is to hire a lawyer to handle it for her. But she doesn’t want to. She keeps her word and asks nothing of that family. What’s more, lawyers are expensive and end up holding on to half or all of what little is at stake. She’d rather use the money—if she ever gets it—on something that would help her daughters get ahead or at least ensure she could feed them one more day.
Nor has she requested her pension for participating in the war, even though she’s been told to. She thinks others are more deserving. She can still work and come up with the money her daughters need by other means. She’s considering getting a job once the third daughter she raised has left the country. She’s even contemplated working as a live-in for a moneyed family who pay their maids handsomely. The only thing stopping her is the littlest daughter. She’s scared she’ll be left unprotected while she’s at work, that the people she could entrust her to won’t care for her as she would.
The people seeking help with cleaning their house won’t let her bring her little girl. Her own mother agrees. She says it isn’t decent. She thinks her husband would have wept to know she’d accepted that sort of job. He’d say that everything they fought for had been in vain. She doesn’t think her littlest’s other grandma would like the idea much either, even though neither the woman’s son nor anyone in their family had fought in the war. Her mother asks her to think it over, not to rush things. For now, she should concentrate on helping the girl who’s leaving. She has to teach her everything she hasn’t yet so that she’ll still be a good person when she’s far away. Though she doesn’t know anyone from France, she can’t imagine they’re good people. Had they been, they would never have taken her firstborn away. She doesn’t think nuns are any good either.
After she learned of the fate of her daughter’s daughter, she was never the same again. She never returned to church. A priest, who noticed her transformation and estrangement, went to speak with her. He explained that it wasn’t a godly matter—it hadn’t been his fault, and she shouldn’t be upset with him over it—and that she really must stop calling him a traitor. Because the priest had shown her some consideration, she behaved as pleasantly as could be and asked whose fault it was, then, seeing as she and her family had done everything the catechists had told them to do and everything God supported. She couldn’t understand how that church could have done that to them. Which is why she was angry with the Church. And with God, too, but not as much as she was with them.
His argument about how God allowed certain things to be done for his glory didn’t convince her because, until then, she’d seen no signs of it. Nor did she think he was somehow working in mysterious ways. If that were the case, he’d be better off sending clearer signals or a bit of explanation: she and her daughters deserved it. And she didn’t want him doing it through intermediaries either. She didn’t trust them.
The priest, in any case, told her she’d be welcome back in the parish whenever she was ready. He promised her. And she believed him. So much so that, as a result, she asked her daughter to make sure they didn’t try and anoint her when she died. Unless, of course, the names of the nuns who’d taken her daughter from her were brought to light and they were put to justice.
She must promise her.
Since when did she worry about those sorts of things? Why was she asking her this?
She was sick. They’d told her so at the hospital she was sent to following a consultation at a clinic. They hadn’t said it was serious, but she could tell from their tone and the way they looked at her.
What was she feeling?
Nothing.
Then how did she know it was serious?
How did she know it wasn’t? What made her think that feeling was the only way to tell if something was serious?
How serious was it?
Very.
What was she planning to do about it? Was there any way she could help? Should she call the brother who’d gone abroad?
No.
But they could find her another doctor, get a second opinion.
Why?
So they could get her some treatment.
Why? What would happen was bound to happen, no matter what.
But there might be another way.
What was the difference in the end?
Did she want her to cancel her daughter’s trip?
Why?
So her daughter could be with her.
No one could be with her where she was going.
The girl could keep her company and help out at home.
No: the girl had to make her own way. Her opportunity had arrived. She had to seize it.
She was sorry she couldn’t give her something for her travels. She’d never managed to hold on to anything of value. Even her wedding ring was gone: she’d pawned it several times to feed her littlest kids when they’d been living on the city’s outskirts, until a time came when she couldn’t get it back. It’s not that she regretted turning it into food, but she would’ve liked to be buried with it since she couldn’t be buried with her husband.
Maybe it was a sign of something.
But what did she think it could be?