The question without an answer
Dora asked the question on a quiet evening, the kind of evening that feels gentle on the outside but heavy on the inside. The power had gone out again, so the room was lit by a small rechargeable lamp placed on the floor between us. Shadows danced on the wall as Dora sat cross-legged, arranging her dolls carefully, giving each one a role, a name, a family. I was folding clothes beside her, tired but grateful for the calm. These small moments were my reward for surviving everything life had thrown at me. Then she looked up. “Mama,” she said, her voice light, almost playful. “Where is my daddy?” The world stopped. My hands froze mid-fold. My chest tightened as if someone had reached inside and squeezed my heart. I had imagined this question many times—on sleepless nights, on long walks
- Writer
