KIERAN BLACKWOOD
I am sitting in front of Maya’s mother.
I ask for wine, but I don’t feel hungry, not even thirsty. My focus is entirely on the woman in front of me, whose face carries the weight of painful memories and secrets never revealed.
“So, what do you need to tell me that’s so urgent?”, I ask, my voice firm but laden with impatience.
She hesitates, her trembling fingers spinning the wine glass in front of her.
“What I’m about to tell you has never been told to anyone. Not even her father…”, she pauses, taking a deep breath, clearly struggling with the words she wants to say.
I sigh, leaning back in the chair, trying to stay calm.
“Continue.”
“Maya was everything to me. When she died, I lost a part of myself, something I could never get back.”, she begins, her voice falteri
