Rafeah was not sure what she felt as she gazed upon her mother’s still and comatose form in the hospital bed. She welcomed the privacy they had and as she sat in the chair by her mother’s side, she reached out and stroked the old woman’s forehead affectionately.
Theirs had been a rocky relationship since Rafeah was a young child. Their arguments never lasted too long, but they were not infrequent. Since her father died, Rafeah had argued less with her mother. This was no surprise since the man was a big part behind their occasionally strained relationship.
The man her mother married was strict and conservative. He provided for the family and never left them wanting, at least not materially. But he ran the household with an iron fist and insisted on total and complete obedience.
Unfortunately, Rafeah had been gifted with a rebellious spirit. She and her father were like oil and water, and sometimes, Rafeah seemed to be oil further inflaming her father’s fire. He was a volcano when provoked, and he had burnt through her years of childhood innocence, justifying that he was putting her onto the path of becoming a proper, decent woman. Her mother was always there to console her at the end of each night, but it did little to ease the pain she felt. She could not remember when it began but there was no doubt as to when it ended.
It ended when he did.
Rafeah did not doubt her mother loved her. However, the older woman had also made a clear choice for her role as spouse over that of parent. Rafeah had tried to rationalise and justify her mother’s actions. She would have called it wilful inertia but had decided to give her mother the benefit of the doubt. As Rafeah entered adulthood, she had come to realise that her mother was as much a victim as she herself had been. A simple village girl who had been raised to always obey the man she married. No matter how heavy the cost.
Realisation, however, had not been accompanied with forgiveness.
Continuing to stroke her unconscious mother’s hair and forehead, it occurred to Rafeah that her way out had been gifted to her by the poor woman, albeit inadvertently.
About two years ago, they had gone to her mother’s village. Her father had fallen ill and had not joined them. He had warned them, though, that any loose lips would be decisively tightened when they returned home. Nevertheless, Rafeah had had a good time meeting relatives who loved her unconditionally and sympathised with her in a way no one else had before. She would have liked to stay but knew it was impossible.
Love was not the only thing they gave her though. Her extended maternal family had also shared some family secrets. Knowledge she lapped up readily.
She pondered whether she should return there when it was all over. She supposed she should. There was still so much more to learn. The tuition costs were heavy but it was nothing Rafeah could not afford.
She stood up from her chair and bent over to gently kiss her mother on her forehead. She also whispered softly of her love and understanding for the woman before she bade her final farewell.
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