(Photo: Cameron Stow on Unsplash)
They said she was wanton.
That from a child she’s been, capricious.
Her mom would sigh. Her father, frown.
They loathed how she refused to bow.
Ungovernable. Resisting.
She was, to them,
A moral stain.
A failure
In contrition.
They had stopped speaking to her
Till she had learned submission.
The wayward daughter of the tribe.
The one who lost
Her compass.
Only they none of them knew
That,
In shunned space,
She finally
Found
Life scrumptious.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: wayward in 77 words
Na'ama Yehuda 
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