Isis.
Why do I feel sorry for her? Is it because she looks like even her own skin wants to crawl away from her?
The news article that I had read about her was so personal. I could see her as easily as my own, biological mother standing there in that war. She had nothing. No safety. No right to food or home. No place to go. If I was there I could call out her name and she would turn and see me. But what would she see? Help? Judgement? Pity? Refuge? A chance to survive the hell she'd been catapulted into? And here I am in my home - warm, safe and fed by Alejandro. There by the grace of God I go.
Isis looked at Aisha as she shifted uncomfortably in the chair she was seated in, in front of her and Alejandro.
She sat there and thought about the question that was racing in her mind ever since the day that she had found out the truth.
Why?
