A Mother's Cry
For every single mother who stayed up when everyone else slept.
Grace was awake before the first cock crowed. She had stopped needing an alarm a long time ago. Her body just knew.
She sat up on the thin mattress and looked at her daughters. Ella, ten years old, slept with one arm thrown over her little sister like she was guarding her. Evelyn, seven, had her mouth open and her school socks already placed beside her pillow, because she liked to be ready.
Grace did not wake them. Not yet.
She went outside to the corner of the compound where her small charcoal stove sat, blew on the coals until they glowed, and put the big pot on. Rice. Then the stew, the one thing she could make with her eyes closed. Onions, tomatoes, a little fish, pepper. She had sold food before, just small small, to neighbours and the women who worked at the tailoring shop. Now she needed it to be more than small.
Because Daniel had not sent anything in three months.
That was the thing she had not said out loud to anybody. Three months since he left for "work in another town." Three months of rent she had paid by selling her gold earrings first, then borrowing from a friend, then skipping her own lunch. Three months of "I will send it next week" on the phone, until the phone stopped ringing at all.
At six she woke the girls. "Ella, Evelyn. Up. Wash your faces."
"Mama, is it Saturday?" Evelyn mumbled.
"It is Tuesday, my love. School."
By seven, Ella was sweeping the room without being asked, which was the part that worried Grace most. A ten-year-old should not know to do that. A ten-year-old should have to be shouted at.
"Mama," Ella said, not looking up from the broom. "The landlord came yesterday when you went to the market."
Grace's hands stopped on the pot lid.
"What did he say?"
"He said to tell you he is coming Friday. He said you should have the money." Ella finally looked at her. "Mama, are we going to be okay?"
Grace wanted to lie. She wanted to say of course, don't think about it. But Ella had her father's eyes and her own stubborn chin, and she would know.
"Eat your food," Grace said gently. "I will handle it."
She packed two small plastic bowls of rice for the girls' lunch, handed Evelyn her bag, and watched them walk to the main road holding hands. Then she turned back to her stove, where plates of food still had to be cooked, wrapped, and carried to the tailoring shop before nine.
Friday was three days away. She had no idea where the money would come from.
She had one idea. She hated it.