The last November rains had barely cleaned the sky when the village prepared for its most loved festival—Mom is Jibon, the day that meant Mother is Life.
Colorful cloth banners fluttered between the homes. The air was perfumed with damp earth, wood-smoke, and the first sweet fritters of the year. Kids splashed in puddles, shrieking, their fingers already sticky with syrup as dads bustled in the background, sweeping porches and stirring giant pots of rice milk. It was the single day of the year that men did the houses and mothers were waited on like queens.
From the window of his small cottage, Luther saw it all silently. He was only ten, but the sight of other children in their mothers' arms bit like a winter wind. Girls braided flowers into their mothers' hair; boys tugged shyly at their mothers' saris. Laughter flowed through the muddy streets.
Luther turned away. He had no mother to complete the ritual with—no guiding hand to take him through the crowd. And the truth was even more bitter: he barely knew who she was. His father, Harold, had never spoken more than a few bitter words about her.
The boy's chest tightened. He went outside, the damp grass cold on his bare feet, and wove through the riot of color until he found Harold behind the house, splitting wood. The axe bit into the log with a rhythm of heartbeats.
"Dad," Luther said, his voice trembling. "I… I need to ask you something."
Harold glanced up, perspiration shining on his brow. "What is it, son?
Why don't I have a mom here like everyone else? Where is she?"
The question slipped out before Luther could bite it back.
The axe paused in mid-air. Harold's shoulders stiffened, and for a long while, there was only the distant drums of the festival to respond. Then he lowered the blade slowly. "I've told you before," he said, his voice flat. "Your mother isn't with us. She chose not to be.".
"But that's not an answer!" Luther's voice cracked. "I don't even know her name. Did she leave us? Is she—" his throat tightened "—is she dead? Why won't you tell me?"
A flash of something—sorrow, maybe, or fear—crossed Harold's face before it shut off again. "These are foolish questions," he snapped. "The past is gone. Let it be."
Luther stepped closer. "You loved her, didn't you? Don't you still?"
The words bit deeper than he had expected. Harold's eyes gleamed. He turned away, jaw set, and for an instant it was as though he would finally speak. Instead he spun around, palm slashing.
Thass!
The slap rang out like a whip.
"How dare you!" Harold cried, breathing heavily. "I am your father. You will not speak to me in such a manner. Go—out of my sight!"
The world tilted. Luther staggered back, cheek burning, eyes brimming. He would have cried out, would have demanded the truth, but his father's wrath choked the words. He spun and ran, past the tawdry lanes and the waft of sweets, past music that now appeared to deride.
Up the familiar hillside he ran, tears blinding him to the path. The damp earth crumbled underfoot and he stumbled, catching himself on a low-branched limb, chest afire.
A hand caught his arm. "Take it easy, friend. What's wrong?"
Luther blinked back tears. In front of him stood John—the kid who'd once pulled him off a cliff and called him brother. John's dark eyes were steady, his warrior-styled tunic mud-stained from his own climb.
"John…" Luther's voice was a whisper.
"Your face—did someone harm you?" John asked softly but persistently.
Luther wiped his sleeve across his eyes. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," John said firmly. "Tell me."
The wind carried the distant melody of the festival music, thin and sad now. Luther looked back toward the village where lanterns shone like miniature suns. "Everybody down there has a mother," he said at last. "Everybody but me.".
John's face heated up. He placed a hand on Luther's shoulder. "You saved a deer and even a wolf, remember? Maybe the gods let you live for something greater. A mother's love can be within you even if she is not there.".
Luther met his friend's gaze, the ache in his chest easing just enough for a breath. The drums of Mom is Jibon echoed through the valley, and for the first time that day, the sound seemed not so solitary.