I didn't remember my father's face, nor could I recall any memories with him.
Since childhood, my mother was the one who took care of both me and my brother until he became old enough to provide for us financially.
Maa…
That's how I addressed her.
Maa wasn't literate. She used to work on a rented farm all day and cook for us the moment she returned.
We didn't even have a proper roof over our heads, so it became even more difficult during the rainy seasons. Still, there wasn't a single rainy night that could soak me or my brother, as Mother would embrace us in her arms, covering us with a torn tarpaulin.
Her lips were cracked, her eyes carried deep dark circles, and her skin clung to her bones due to malnutrition.
Yet she was the strongest warrior in the world to me.
Her battle wasn't against cursed beings or lecherous people — it was against fate itself.
And I was the living proof of her victory in that battle.
She was the person I loved, respected, and worshipped the most.
