Palms Open, Asking: Chideziri POV

I finally summon up the bravado to ask Mumsi about the divorce on Saturday, late at night when she's still walking about the house with her faithful kerosene lantern, checking if all the windows, louvres and doors are closed. According to her, she's had that smoky lantern since her university days and though there are four electricity-powered lamps in this vicinity alone, she puts that thing in her room every night, at the farthest corner, filled to its brim with kero, flickering yellow on the walls and making every shadow creepier and more twisted. She sets down the lantern in the middle of the parlour. While she talks, I watch the yellow flame behind the glass globe, bouncing up and down on the wick, floating like a fairy. Just floating there. And she gets to a point somewhere, where the story of Amanda's Dad tumbles out. She doesn't finish it because her voice splinters at a bridge, and it can't go on. I don't say a word. Don't offer comforting words or a tissue; I don't have any