I left the celebration early and found the cheapest guesthouse near the railway station.
Twenty bucks a night. The sheets reeked of mildew and stale smoke.
The hard mattress dug into my spine as I stared at the water-stained ceiling. The scene at the banquet played on a loop—a torture I couldn't switch off.
Images of my son flickered through my mind. The toddler who recited poetry at three. The five-year-old who insisted on carrying the foot-washing basin for his mother.
Now, those memories were overlaid by the cold, indifferent figure in the tailored suit.
He never gave me trouble in school. Our mud-brick walls were plastered with his academic certificates. To pay his tuition, I sold every grain of harvest I had.
When that wasn't enough, I sold my blood.
When his mother lay dying, she refused treatment. She hoarded every penny so he could finish his degree.
I remember her gripping my hand—her grip weak, but urgent.
*"Asher, our boy is meant for great things. We have to lift him up. Send him out into the world. When he succeeds, we'll finally enjoy some peace."*
She was gone now.
And I had lost him too.
There was no peace.