But truth is alive and knows how to wait.
In the days that followed, Sod, Kimmy, and Adola continued seeing each other in secret in an old forgotten barn in the hills. They laughed, they talked, they healed. The three, united by the same abandonment, were now being stitched together by acceptance.
And Bimbo watched from afar, like a ghost at the edge of her own story. She wanted to get closer, but she knew it was not time yet. She spent her nights awake, pacing, whispering prayers, sometimes yelling at God, other times crying into her pillow.
Then came a clear morning—too clear for what was about to happen.
The father came home from work earlier than usual. He found Bimbo seated at the table, her eyes lost.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” The question came dry.
She froze.
“What are you talking about?”
“Three. Three girls with your face—at the market, at the river, on the road home.”
He threw a cloth onto the table. It was a floral scarf, the same one Bimbo had sewn for Adola months earlier.
“I saw them. I followed them. I listened.”
His voice was low but lethal.
“You lied to me. Three daughters—three—and you made me bury one in the name of a lie.”
“I… I didn’t know how to tell you—”
“But you knew how to deceive me.”
Bimbo stood, trying to hold his hand.
“I repented. I changed.”
“Too late.”
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