Six years after marriage, when I went to my father's house for the first time, they asked me, Are you well, daughter?
I no longer knew whether to laugh or cry at this worn question. Even when heart-breaking sobs rose from within, sometimes you must not weep, must swallow it all in silence. What good would crying do before those whose vocabulary of well-being matters more than my private tears?
I began to think, what could I say! What could I say! Should I tell them...say, at eight in the evening I'm fine, but by quarter past eight the misery begins? Or should I say...ask me about weeks or days, that would be easier to answer! I mean, what I was trying to say is, when was the last time I was well for two days straight, or if luck was truly kind, two weeks running—I can't even remember!
Suddenly I saw, seeing me silent, they were all looking toward my two children. Lifting my daughter from my lap to her grandfather's, spreading a wonderful smile of contentment across my face, I broke the silence with laughter...Ma, I've enrolled your grandson in school now. Stroking my son's head, I said, Come on, beta, sing "The Wheels on the Bus" for dida!
I saw that seeing this house's only daughter happy, fountains of joy were flowing through everyone.