“You brought this on yourself.”
“Love it.”
“Not until everyone sees.”
“Your face reminds me of a mistake. A mistake I can never forget.”
If you passed Madame Oni’s house early in the morning, you would hear two different sounds. From one room came laughter. From the courtyard came the sound of a broom scraping the ground. That was how the difference began.
Madame Oni had only two daughters, Linda and Mayel. Born of the same mother, raised under the same roof, yet treated as though they came from different worlds. Linda was the pride of the house. Mayel was the shadow.
Before the sun rose, Mayel was already awake, sweeping, washing plates, carrying water from the river, splitting firewood with hands far too young to be that strong. Inside the house, Linda stretched lazily on her bed.
“My jewel,” Madame Oni would say, sitting beside her. “You must not stress yourself.”
Stress was for Mayel.
If Linda made a mistake, Mayel was beaten. If Linda insulted someone, Mayel apologized. If Linda refused to work, Madame Oni would wave her hand.
“Leave her. She was not made for suffering.”
But whenever Madame Oni looked at Mayel, her eyes hardened. Sometimes she would say quietly, “Your face reminds me of something I wish I could forget.”
Mayel never asked what that meant. She only worked harder.
Yet something in her refused to break. She greeted elders properly. She helped neighbors. She shared the little she had. The villagers began to whisper, “That girl will not remain like this forever.”
Linda heard those whispers, and they annoyed her. Because while Mayel was growing in strength, Linda was growing in comfort—lazy, proud, always dreaming of the city. Not to learn a trade. Not to struggle. But to live large. She would sit with her friends and talk about rich men, flashy cars, expensive phones.
“Once I get to the city,” she would say confidently, “I will not suffer like village girls. I will find money wherever it is.”
