“And you?”
Hue pointed to the bowl.
“Sometimes he leaves me the remains.
I looked again at the rice in the bowl.
The thorns.
The heads.
Suddenly I remembered something.
Every time I called home, my mother said the same thing:
“Your wife is doing great. Eat a lot. Get plenty of rest.”
I felt a cold run down my back.
“Since when…?” I asked with difficulty.
Hue hesitated.
“Since I left the hospital.
I felt something burning inside my chest.
One month.
A whole month had passed.
A month in which I thought my wife was being taken care of.
A month in which my mother received my money.
A month in which Hue ate… garbage.
I clenched my fists.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?”
Hue looked up at me.
His eyes were filled with fear.
“Because,” he whispered, “… She is your mother.
Those words hit me harder than anything else.
Hue wasn’t afraid of going hungry.
He was afraid of destroying the relationship between a son and his mother.
I took a deep breath.
Then I got up.
“Where is she?”
Hue opened his eyes in concern.
“He must be at Mrs. Marta’s house… talking to the neighbors.
I took my jacket.
“Stay here,” I said.
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at her.
“Fix this.
