We did not talk that day. Dad sat at the back of the bus while Ma and I sat in front. Ma was holding my hand in a tight grip, her eyes smoldering with rage.
An hour later, Dad moved towards the door of the bus. Our destination was half a kilometer away. Ma followed him. A minute later there was a shout and the bus screeched to a halt. I screamed. Dad lay in a pool of blood on the road. Mom stood still, an icy look on her face. She was never the one to forgive a betrayal.
Image : Manuel Deiker ( Unsplash)
