Mother.
The word sounded hollow to him. Not that he had never addressed anyone with that, but it sounded uncomfortable, too unreal that he was addressing Agnes with the name.
Mother was not a befitting name for a woman like her. Perhaps that was why he felt the bitter taste of neem juice on his tongue. The type his mother, or the woman he had assumed to be his mother before he had found this heart-wrecking confession, used to give him as a child when he was sick.
Arman had never hated his life as much as he did then. And he had never wished for something as desperately as he wished for a way to end all of this pain.
The mess that had been created solely for his sake.
Every time he looked at her, it was like the pain was tearing him apart once more. He couldn’t keep the pain at bay, an
