On the Egg Shell

The rain began at exactly six o'clock. Amara sat beside the window of her small apartment, watching the raindrops slide slowly down the glass. The sky was dark, and the sound of thunder occasionally shook the building. Normally, Amara loved the rain. Tonight, however, every drop seemed to awaken a memory she had spent years trying to bury. She was twenty-seven years old, but there were moments when she still felt like the frightened twelve-year-old girl she had once been. She closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was back in the old house. She could hear her father's angry voice. She could hear a plate smashing against the floor. She could hear her mother crying. Then came the silence. That was the last night Amara ever saw her mother. The following morning, her mother was gone. Everyone had told Amara that her mother had abandoned the family. Some said she had become tired of the difficult life she was living. Others suggested that she had found another man. Amara believed them. For fifteen years, she carried one painful question inside her: Why wasn't I enough for my mother to stay? The question followed her everywhere. It followed her to school. It followed her into adulthood. It followed her into every friendship and every relationship. Whenever someone raised their voice, she became frightened. Whenever she heard glass or plates breaking, her heart began to race. Whenever somebody asked about her family, she smiled and changed the subject. She had become an expert at hiding her pain. To everyone around her, Amara was strong, hardworking and independent. But deep inside, she was exhausted. That evening, while she was preparing dinner, three knocks sounded on her door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Amara froze. She looked at the clock. 7:43 p.m. Nobody was supposed to visit. She slowly walked toward the door. "Who is it?" There was no answer. She looked through the small opening. An elderly woman stood outside, holding an umbrella. Amara opened the door slightly. The woman looked at her. For a moment, neither spoke. Then the woman whispered, "Amara?" Amara's heart jumped. "Yes. Who are you?" The old woman smiled sadly. "My name is Adwoa." Amara stared at her. "I was your mother's friend." The world seemed to stop. "My... mother's friend?" The woman nodded. "I have been looking for you for many years." Amara opened the door wider. "Why?" Mrs. Adwoa reached into her handbag and pulled out a small brown envelope. "I came because your mother left something for you." Amara stared at the envelope. Her name was written across it. AMARA. For the first time in fifteen years, the past had knocked on her door. And this time, Amara could not pretend she was not home.