Gyda Lionrock thinks her visit to Asclan Peak is for one reason and one reason alone-to procreate and finally welcome that child of her own. She could have never guessed she would also leave something behind inside the mountains, but it was her hear...
Ops! Esta imagem não segue as nossas directrizes de conteúdo. Para continuares a publicar, por favor, remova-a ou carrega uma imagem diferente.
It was one hour ago that I knocked on Amira's door and was welcomed so warmly by her and her mother Beatrice. It had even left me a little overwhelmed.
Just like Amira, Beatrice was a free-spirited and broad-minded woman. It took me only two minutes to find that out.
She looked like Amira in appearance, too. Her long, gray, curly hair seemed like an untameable mop, with frizzy strands springing free from her high bun. And Amira had clearly inherited her pretty green eyes but not the freckles on her nose.
I guessed she and my mother were about the same age, but that was where the similarities ended. My mother was conservative, serious, and harsh, while Beatrice was chatty, funny, and kind-hearted.
Had Amira come knocking on my door instead of I at hers, my mother would have surely told her it was rude to come by unannounced and Amira most likely would have had to apologize. But not here. Here, it was Beatrice who was so kind to make us lunch. She said a friend of Amira was a friend of hers.
In all my twenty-six years, I'd never really had a friend before. It had always been me and my sisters and nieces. But now—although we'd only known each other for a short time—I'd like to call Amira my friend.
"I presume your mother doesn't know you are here?" Beatrice asked, serving both me and Amira a bowl of steaming lentil soup, which smelled amazing. "Be careful, it's still very hot!"
"My mother is out of town. She'll return tomorrow. Uh...had she known I wanted to visit this side of town, she would have never let me go..."
I was sure Beatrice knew all about the prejudice of the women in town, but it still sucked answering her question.
Beatrice laughed as she grabbed another bowl that stood in the sun on the windowsill. She snatched a batch of dough out of it. "This has risen amazingly!" she said, pleased.
She looked at me. "Oh, you don't have to look so sad about it, love!" She slammed the ball of dough on the table and started kneading and squeezing, rolling it under her hands. "Because I'm not bothered by their gossip and opinions. In the end, it's me that sleeps well, while they don't, consumed by their guilt and shame."
"I don't think they feel guilt or shame, to be honest," I replied, then blew at the bowl of steaming soup.
"Oh, but I know they do."
I didn't understand what she meant, but I didn't want to ask her about it. She said it did not bother her, but it did bother me.
And I was ashamed my own mother was one of the worst of these women.
While Beatrice hit the dough with her fists, I took my first spoonful. "Wow, this is amazing!" I said after swallowing. The thick, yellow soup tasted savory but also sweet and spicy at the same time.
"My mother is the best cook!" Amira said proudly before she slurped from her spoon.
"I truly am," Beatrice agreed, winking at me. "I actually learned this dish from my mother. Her cooking lessons were the only thing the old woman ever did right in her life." Beatrice whacked the dough on the table with another bang. "And I have taught all our family recipes to my daughters. If you want to learn as well, Amira could teach you."
