Page 152 of Eternal
I loved it when it was only us. She’d let me pick the color of the flowers we’d put in the vase like we did before. That day, I chose purple.Purplefor irises.
She smiled when I told her that I wanted these ones. But it wasn’t a real smile, it was a small, tired one, but I still thought she looked pretty.
She looked like a princess.
She had a new cup that day. She kept holding it, sipping from it, even though it smelled funny. I hated that smell. I wrinkled my nose when it hit me. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, Azra.”
But when I reached for it, she pulled it away too fast, almost spilling it on herself. She looked at me then, her eyes wide, like I had caught her doing something bad.
I giggled. “You’re acting weird, Mama.”
She forced a smile. “I’m tired.”
Mama was always tired these days.
We sat on the floor, and she let me brush her hair. It was soft, light, and long, and I liked how it felt between my fingers. “Do you want braids?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away, she looked at the wall, like there was something written on it only she could see.
I followed her gaze but the wall wasempty.
I tried again, poking her shoulder. “Mama?”
She blinked, and her eyes found me again. “Braids?” she repeated, like she was trying to remember the word.
I nodded. “Like the ones you do for me.”
She nodded too, a slow, sleepy nod. “Okay, baby.” But she didn’t move, so I started combing her hair anyway, humming one of the poems she liked.
She was quiet. Too quiet. Mama used to talk a lot. About the sky, about the ocean, about the stories she read. About the country she came from, or her own mom. She even talked about my real dad.
But lately, she only talks when she has to.
I thought maybe she was tired. Grown-ups got tired a lot. Even Papa gets tired after working with Vik and Kat’s dad.
“Are you sad?” I asked.
She ran a hand over her face. “No, baby.”
But she was lying.
I didn’t know why grown-ups lied about being sad. If I was sad, I simply said so. But Mama never did.
When I finished her hair, she touched the braids, tracing them like they were something fragile. “Thank you, my love,” she whispered.
I smiled. “Now you do mine!”
She sighed and reached for my hair, but her hands weren’t steady. The braids came out uneven, loose, but I didn’t say anything.
Then I had an idea.
I grabbed one of the irises from the vase, the prettiest one, purple like the sky before nighttime, soft like Mama’s voice when she used to be happy.
I tucked it behind her ear, where it sat gently against her dark hair.
“There,” I said. “Now you really look like a princess.”
