Her mother looked like a shadow of the strong woman who once carried her on her back. She was painfully thin. Her skin was ashen. Her eyes, once bright, were cloudy with pain. But when she saw Sakina, a small, broken smile crossed her face.
“My daughter… you came back.”
Sakina pulled her mother into her arms, feeling every bone. She smelled medicine, sweat, and neglect. Tears burned down her face as she rocked her gently.
“I sent money every month,” Sakina whispered. “I sent thousands of dollars. Uncle Ousman said you were getting treatment. He said you needed it for the hospital…”
Hadja Ramatou let out a weak, bitter laugh that turned into a cough.
“Ousman built a new house with your money,” she whispered. “He bought a car. He sent Ibrahima to private school. They told everyone you were sending money for the family… not for me.”
Sakina’s blood ran cold.
For eight years, she had starved herself in America so her mother could live with dignity.
Instead, her own blood had stolen everything.
