The words rang, echoing in the silence, but Zahra could hardly understand what was being said. It didn’t make any sense. Her hand withdrew instinctually, guarding her from the pangs of betrayal and hurt she felt emanating from the one she cherished most.

Her eyes focused on the woman lying before her; the frail body an alien encasing a fighter’s soul, strength and determination punching at her with just a look. “Why?” Zahra breathed out, reeling from the confession.

“That’s not really something I can answer,” she said. Her hand, empty now, moved onto her lap, folded with the other.

Zahra rubbed at her forehead, running her middle finger from the space between her brows to her hairline then back down. Pressing harder, she rubbed then rested the heel of her hand center on her forehead. “Who are you?” She finally asked with a shuddering breath.

“Your mother was my sister,” she stated plainly.

“Was.” It was more of a statement than a question. Zahra’s eyes fell to her knees, unable to look her aunt in the eye. Her aunt. The thought was so foreign. She had been “mom” for as long as Zahra could remember. First steps, birthdays, crushes, heart breaks, and celebrations – she had been there for all of them, as her mother. Had it all been lies?

“I haven’t seen her since the day I got you,” she answered, interrupting Zahra’s thoughts. “These days there’s really no way to know for sure.”

Zahra nodded then shook her head, unsure whether to be relieved that her mother may be alive or outraged that she was passed off like a green bean casserole at Thanksgiving. Who was she that she could be so easily abandoned then lied to for eighteen years? She wanted to ask – wanted to know – what happened; but every time she found the courage to look into the eyes of the woman who raised her, she felt new pains of betrayal.

She quickly stood, keeping her eyes trained on her shoes as her scrambled to gather her jacket. “I’ll come see you later,” she stumbled. “I need a minute. I need… I’ll come back.” With her jacket draped over her arm, she tripped out the door and heard her call, “I love you,” from the hospital room.

Zahra hurried through the corridors pushing past doctors and nurses. Her chest felt heavy, her breathing felt more labored with each step. A thunderous pulse resounded in her head, thudding as her foot connected with the shiny, disinfected linoleum floor.

Gasping, she fell into the door, pushing it open and letting in a rush of cold air. The winter chill cut through her anxieties, her lungs screaming from the cold. With a shudder, she swung her red leather jacket over her shoulder, shoved the black helmet onto her head and plopped onto her bike. With a flick of her wrist, the motorcycle roared to life. The sound filled her ears, a comforting whir lulling her into a peaceful trance.

Kicking off, she raced out of the hospital parking lot. Snow banks blurred past in a smear of white and gray. Soot from the nearby smoke stacks polluting and dirtying the air. The world faded in streaks of smoky black as Zahra rushed home – to the home in which she had grown up and the home in which she thought she had been raised by her mother.

Each happy memory seemed tainted. Each smile, each laugh, each loving word, and each hug had become tainted by the knowledge that the woman that she had cared so much about for every day of her life was not her mother. As she turned the corner onto her street, the street she grew up on, she couldn’t help but laugh. Mother’s Day. Years and years of Mother’s Day gifts belonged to someone else.

She belonged to someone else.