Sod stared at her for a long time, then spoke with a calmness more painful than any scream.
“I know everything, Mama.”
Bimbo’s soul froze.
“What are you talking about?”
“Kimmy. My sisters. Your daughters. The water jug.”
Bimbo dropped the jug she was holding. It shattered on the dirt floor. She stumbled back, grabbing the doorframe.
“No, no, it can’t be.”
“You threw us away like rotten yam, one by one.”
Bimbo dropped to her knees.
“Sod, please. No.”
Words would not come. Only sobs, moans, the sound of regret buried for years.
“I was young, foolish, so ashamed of how you looked. I thought… I thought no one would accept a mother of deformed daughters.”
“So you chose pride,” Sod replied. “And now you are harvesting silence.”
Bimbo crawled to her daughter’s feet.
“Forgive me for everything I did.”
She clung to Sod’s ankles as if afraid she would vanish in that instant.
Sod took a deep breath. Then she knelt and hugged her.
“I forgive you, Mama. Not for you, but for me.”
And in that moment, two generations of pain met in an embrace where crying was no longer punishment. It was relief.
“But Papa can’t know,” said Sod, looking into her eyes.
“He can’t,” Bimbo repeated, eyes wide with fear. “He already sees me as a mistake. If he finds out about this, he’ll never forgive me.”
“Then we’ll keep this secret.”
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