My mother does not like fortune tellers.

She was young. I do not know the exact circumstance or her exact age at the time of her “consultation”, or why she even went, or how she looked or seemed, or what was it that made her voice out, in a question, her one dream: “Will I be able to travel outside of the country?” or what prompted the fortune teller to tell my mother that no, she would not go places. I only know that while my mother was telling me this story many, many years ago, there was still pain in her eyes, and anger, her chin jutting at that defiant angle. The barb – even when it probably was not meant as a barb – had hit home and she could still feel the sting. Even after all the time that had elapsed.

I was told I could not make it, too, but not by a fortune teller.

To continue reading this post, please click on the title.

I embrace my daughter and soothe her as only my touch can do. I assure her that I am there, fully attentive, this time, to her, learning with her. She smiled and started to lean her head on me. How wonderfully forgiving children are. I started to think – maybe this is my cue, maybe I can again fill up the shoes that I hung on the sill in my quest for me.

Parents, more often than not, are, really, well-meaning. But sometimes, their good intentions do more harm than good. That dole-out would only teach my brother that mommy is there if he gets into straits, that it is okay to spend because mom is there, always there, and she will pay…? No need to stand on his own two feet.

Please click on the title to read on.