In my 70 years of life, I have passed through almost every phase including the ones, one doesn't hope, expect or enjoy being a part of.
As I run my hand through my hair, as I rub my eyes, getting off my bed. I look at my image reflecting from the mirror across the room.And 'not' to my surprise, I see stretched and wrinkled skin, dull eyes and salt & peppery hair. A bent back... and a lost identity, expression and every emotion that had made my life what it was for so long.I see my misery and plight flash through my eyes, while I question myself,as to what do I own, other than my dead husband who left me to struggle alone in my early 30's, a son who disowned me, a daughter who shrugged me off her shoulders and grandchildren who merely care to recognise the grandma.
I, rather am dubious about my abilities from the past. Had I saved something for my own old age, I would neither have to wash my own clothes with one leg already in the grave and nor would I have to wear a smile at the old age home, just to pretend like my life is,and what I chose it to be. I wouldn't have to weep in loneliness and lie about it being a joint ache.
What is my fault?
I don't even see myself in a position to question my kids about where had I gone wrong when did I stumble? Was my baggage too much for my children to handle it?
Or was my only fault, that I mothered my dead husband's children of an extra marital affair with my own milk. The endless, sleepless nights in worry for them, with the warmth of my body, and unconditional love...that they seem to have forgotten..
based on fiction
