Rusty Nail

She came to talk with the mother of a child, to hear her excuse for not bringing her child to the doctor when she was told to. She heard her ramble about her foot, about the rusty nail that got to her foot, about the lack of family support, about the lack of money. “It’s always about the money,” she thought. But now that the child is between life and death, the mother came and brought her child to seek for help — still with no money, and still with one foot injured from a rusty nail. The mother was crying, but there were no tears, as if to justify her having none in this life, except her own being just to be with the daughter she loves so much.

She left their conversation wishing she had empathised with her better, wishing she had more to offer the mother, wishing she did not have to scold her.


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