After the small burned clearing, where every summer I would go to pick blueberries with my mother, I finally reached the edge of the road. Out of breath, I stopped abruptly, as though an invisible hand had struck my forehead. My chest heaved, and I felt an unfamiliar lump in my throat—a desire to cry, though I didn't quite know why.
The road stretched before me, silent and lifeless, its gravel surface shimmering under the punishing sun. It seemed like a hollow thing, devoid of purpose, a path that led nowhere. I had imagined finding it full of travelers, their footsteps echoing with stories of far-off places. But there was no sign of them, no trace of anyone who had walked here before me. Only the oppressive stillness, pressing down on me like a weight.
I hesitated to step onto the road, as if doing so would violate some sacred boundary. My feet followed the edge of the ditch instead, cautious and hesitant, with my eyes scanning the horizon for something—anything—that might bring this lifeless expanse to life.
Suddenly, my foot struck something solid, and I was thrown forward into the grass. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and my hands stung from scraping against the rough ground. I scrambled to sit up, brushing dirt off my clothes, only to freeze in place when I saw what—or rather, who—I had stumbled upon.
A man.
He lay sprawled in the ditch, his body twisted at an awkward angle. For a moment, I thought he might be dead, and my breath caught in my throat. But then he stirred, his limbs moving sluggishly, and I realized he had only been sleeping.
If I had thought the road was lifeless, this man seemed like its embodiment. His clothes were tattered and caked with mud, his hair and beard a tangled mess that nearly obscured his face. His skin was streaked with grime, and his yellowed teeth gleamed from behind cracked lips. He reeked of sweat and decay, the stench so overpowering that I had to fight the urge to gag.
I wanted to run, but my legs felt like lead. Before I could summon the courage to move, his eyes opened, bloodshot and unfocused, and fixed on me.
"What's this, eh?" he muttered, his voice thick and gravelly. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, his movements slow and unsteady, as if the simple act of waking was an enormous effort.
I tried to back away, but his hand shot out and grabbed my arm. His grip was rough, his fingers digging into my skin.
"Don't run," he said, grinning in a way that made my stomach churn. "What's a little thing like you doing out here all alone?"
I couldn't answer. My throat was dry, and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst.
"How old are you?" he asked, tilting his head as he studied me. Then, without waiting for a response, he added, "Bet you don't know any stories. Nah, you're too young. Me, though—I've got plenty of stories."
He leaned closer, his breath hot and sour against my face. I recoiled, trying to pull my arm free, but his grip only tightened.
"Don't be scared, boy," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Just wanna talk."
His other hand moved to my shoulder, heavy and unyielding, and I felt a wave of panic rising in my chest. My lips moved silently as I murmured a prayer, begging for deliverance.
And then, as if summoned by my desperate plea, she appeared.
My mother.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her figure silhouetted against the bright sunlight. She was holding the sturdy branch she used to herd the cows, her knuckles white around its base. For a moment, she didn't move, and I thought she might simply be an apparition—a product of my fear and imagination. But then her voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Let go of that child!"
The man flinched, his head snapping around to face her. His grip on my arm loosened, and I scrambled to my feet, putting as much distance as I could between us.
My mother stepped forward, her movements deliberate and unhurried. She was tall and strong, her presence as unyielding as the mountains that surrounded our home. For the first time in my life, I saw her not as a figure of fear, but as a force of nature—immense and unstoppable.
The man rose to his feet, swaying slightly. He was shorter than my mother, and though he tried to look defiant, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Beautiful Claudine," he said, his tone mocking but tinged with something else—recognition. "Didn't expect to see you here. Thought you were long gone."
My mother's expression didn't waver. "Get out of here," she said, her voice cold and steady.
The man chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "Still got that fire in you, huh? Guess it runs in the family. That your boy, then? Looks just like you—"
"Leave," my mother interrupted, her tone now laced with steel.
But the man didn't listen. He took a step closer, and for a brief moment, I saw his hand move toward her, as if he thought he could intimidate her.
He was wrong.
Before he could even react, my mother raise branch and brought it down on him with a force that made my breath catch. The sound of the blow echoed through the clearing, followed by the heavy thud of the man collapsing to the ground.
She stood over him, her chest heaving, the branch trembling in her hand. For a long moment, she didn't move, her gaze fixed on his motionless form. Then she bent down, checked that he was still breathing, and straightened up again.
"Home," she said, her voice clipped. "Now."
I didn't argue. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself to move, stumbling back toward the house. Behind me, I could hear her footsteps, steady and unrelenting, like the beating of a drum.
When we reached the kitchen, she let go of the branch and turned to face me. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I thought she might strike me, but instead, she spoke in a voice that was low and tense.
"The world isn't beautiful, François," she said. "It isn't kind. Don't forget that. You don't belong to it. You belong to me. And as long as you live under my roof, you'll do as I say. Do you understand?"
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
"Good." She turned away, her shoulders stiff, and began to clean the branch, as though nothing had happened.
But something had changed. For the first time, I saw my mother not as an unfeeling tyrant, but as a woman—flawed, fierce, and deeply human.
That night, as I lay on my thin mattress, I couldn't shake the image of her standing over the man, her figure silhouetted against the light. The great Claudine, unyielding and indomitable.
And for the first time, I began to wonder if there was more to her than I had ever realized.