Her mother, Mama Rose, was sick and getting weaker by the day. Their tiny one-room house had cracked walls and a leaking roof. Hunger was familiar to Amara. So was pain. But she never complained.
That was where this story truly began.
One morning, Amara tied her scarf, straightened her faded blouse and skirt, and looked at herself in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. At twenty-one, she already looked older than her years.
“You’re strong,” she whispered. “You can do this.”
She knelt beside the basket of bananas. Most of them were already getting too ripe. If she did not sell them soon, they would be worthless.
“Please last one more day,” she murmured.
Before leaving, she knelt beside her mother.
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