The chickens were still asleep when the silence of early morning was broken by a cold voice.
“Bimbo, wake up.”
She opened her eyes slowly, reaching across the mattress for her husband Mario’s arm. But it was not him speaking. It was her mother-in-law, Donatau, standing in the doorway, her old lantern shaking in her hand, her gaze loaded with judgment.
“Get up and cover your head. We have visitors.”
Bimbo sat up slowly, heart racing.
Outside, under the shadow of the mango tree, a young strong woman stood with a sack of flour on her head and a shy smile on her lips.
“This is Nem,” said the mother-in-law bluntly. “The new wife.”
Bimbo felt the world tilt.
“New what?”
“New wife,” Donatau repeated, as if announcing a replacement gas tank. “Seven years, Bimbo. You’ve had seven years. Two dead children, none alive. And you think Mario is going to die waiting for you to finally birth something that lives?”
“Mama,” Mario murmured, standing up in shame. “We haven’t even talked this through with her.”
“Oh, shut that loose mouth, Mario. What kind of man watches his own mother grow old without grandchildren and does nothing?”
Bimbo looked at him, hoping for a gesture, a word, a defense, but all she saw was doubt.
She approached and knelt at her husband’s feet, eyes red, soul bare.
“Give me one more year. Just one. If I’m not pregnant, you can marry as many women as you want. But let me try one last year for everything we have lived through.”
Mario looked at her. There was pain in his eyes, yes, but also exhaustion. Still, he nodded slowly.
“Just one year.”
The mother-in-law rolled her eyes. “One wasted year.”
But for Bimbo, it was a miracle in installments.
The next night, Bimbo returned to the river, for the last time, she thought. She brought a candle and an old Bible she borrowed from a neighbor, just in case things went wrong.
She cried like never before.
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