That night, I couldn't sleep.
The rain had stopped, but the silence felt louder than the storm. I lay beside Mama, listening to her breathing, slow and uneven. Each breath sounded like a struggle, as if even air was something life was reluctant to give her.
I got up quietly and walked to the corner where she kept her small purse. I didn't mean to touch it. I just wanted to look. Maybe I was hoping the coins would magically multiply.
As I opened it, the worn string snapped.
The coins spilled onto the floor, rolling in different directions. The sound was sharp, like something breaking inside me. I knelt down quickly, my hands shaking as I gathered them one by one.
There were not many.
I counted them slowly, my heart sinking with each number. Not enough for medicine. Not enough for food. Not enough for anything that mattered.
"Amina?"
Mama's voice startled me. I turned around, panic rising in my chest.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to—"
She sat up with difficulty and looked at the coins in my hand. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she sighed, a tired, heavy sound.
"Life has been unkind to us," she said softly. "But you must never let it make you unkind to yourself."
Tears filled my eyes. I nodded, unable to speak.
She reached for my hand, her grip weak but warm. "Promise me you won't give up on your dreams, no matter how hard things get."
I wanted to promise her everything. A better house. Full meals. A future without pain. But all I could promise was this:
"I won't give up," I said.
As I lay back down, clutching that promise close to my heart, I felt something new rising inside me. It wasn't hope exactly. It was determination — quiet, fragile, but alive.
And for the first time, I understood that my fight with life had truly begun.