The Missing

12

I don’t understand where it’s coming from, all this hatred inside me. How can my heart have room for so much darkness? Especially someone like me, who was conceived and carried and raised with love. Carefully, she held me in her hands, showing me the path into life. She was at my side, giving me everything, living solely for my sake.

And many years later, when it was my turn to receive the miracle of life, I did the same. Ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. Everything changed, and I bowed my head, asking for mercy. I sacrificed everything, not because I was forced to do so, but because I wanted to. I did it gladly. I did it out of love.

I lean forward and bathe her forehead. Even though beads of sweat have formed, her skin is very cold. I want nothing more than for her to sit up and talk to me. Assuage my pain with her love. The space that is mine is so small, and yet I’m not allowed to be left in peace. There, sprouting in the cracks of what once existed, is hatred. Somewhere far away, a voice is speaking. It says: Without me, you are nothing.

I reach for her hand, clasp it in my own. Her fingers are limp. I’m the one who has to keep us together now.

I think how the only thing of importance is that she recovers, that she comes back to me. If only I’m allowed to keep her, nothing else matters. Then I shake off what I know and move on. I can forget. I can even forgive.

That’s what I’m thinking, but it’s not true. Because whatever happens, I will never be able to forgive you. Do you hear me? Never.