“She was so sick, so weak. She didn’t make it,” she sobbed.
Mario froze. “What?”
“I tried. I tried to hold her, but she was gone,” Bimbo said, burying her head in her chest.
Mario stood still. Tears came to him like hot rain. He screamed, punched the floor, ran outside, and kicked a drum that flew across the yard.
The neighbors heard the wailing and whispered.
Bimbo only cried with technique, because not a single tear was real.
In the days that followed, the house was filled with silence. The village sent porridge, comforting herbs, and prayers. Her mother-in-law, Donatau, spent her days sitting on the porch, repeating, “A baby who dies at birth is a sign. A sign that something is wrong with the mother. The fault is never the baby’s.”
Continued on the next page
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