If you come into Mother’s room right now, you will perceive the choking smell of something burnt and my brother’s sporadic sobs lingering in the air. But Mother does not notice these things; instead, she burrows in a pile of unwashed clothes on the bed, crying. Her pain envelops me like a dark cloud. I see the bleeding lacerations in her injured soul from the helplessness corner I’m narrating this tale. Her tears bear witness to the existence of the woman I refuse to become.
I have been struggling with her silence since my return, trying to shed more light on the obscurity in which she lives. I want my mother to live in the paradise of her rights and freedom. But, today, her cry reminds me of the reason her limitations must never be mine.It reminds me of why I need to break away from the cycle that has served her all these years, the monotony that has defined her entire life. Mother is a good woman. Be it as it may, I am convinced she is exactly who I don’t want to become. 
I once saw t…