“ You buried a child…, and you referred to him as your son. But the child you buried was not a boy but a girl, and that child was you…”.
“ My writings are open for anyone to interpret.”
“ But their perspectives are not the authors. “
(She stood abruptly, almost toppling the teacup on the small table beside her)
“…but it does not mean it is wrong!”
He was not deterred by her sudden outburst. She knew her enough to understand the turbulence in her. He needed to make her accept these emotions. He needed to make her acknowledge the darkness that haunts her very soul.
“ There was no child. You were referring to yourself dying. The infant in your soul. The part without malice and darkness, the one without scars. You buried that part of you that was uncorrupted by life, and you assumed the journey with a soldier’s heart. Someone driven to survive and nothing else”.
She said nothing. But her tears gave all the answers he needed.