The Choice

“I was rotting here while you were free, going to school, going to
the theater,” she says.
I wonder how long she’s been here. She’s thin, but sturdy. She
stands tall. She could be a dancer. I wonder why she seems so angry
that I have reminded her of normal life. “When will I see my mother?”
I ask her. “I was told I’d see her soon.”
She gives me a cold, sharp stare. ere is no empathy in her eyes.
ere is nothing but rage. She points to the smoke rising up from one
of the chimneys in the distance. “Your mother is burning in there,”
she says. “You better start talking about her in the past tense.”