It took her sixty years, but she finally did manage to maneuver the tangled maze of history and silence.
“Why do they make it so difficult?” she had demanded one day, flooded with frustrations.
“Shame, I suppose,” the woman at the records office had shrugged.
And a shame it was.
One that too many women carried, and too many cultures reinforced.
But shame could not, in the end, keep her story from being told.
She watched the ancient lady in the market. Half-bent. Wholly recognizable.
Her birth mother.
A rare root unfurled inside her heart. Sprouted. Took hold.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Brenda Cox