Het doosje met alles

I remember the room my mother slept in. It is a dark place, empty except for a bed, a washing till, a single wooden chair. A used nightshirt hangs over the chair, its sweat stains folding it into wrong shapes. My mother is not there, although she is near. A second chair stands in the hall and she reads in candlelight until… 

Until it is over. 

I do not remember the first time I entered her empty room alone. I do remember when my sister turned seven and I did not have to go anymore. She had produced a girl. And girls sell better. 

I remember being happy I didn’t have to go anymore. I’m sorry Jeannie but it is true. I was so happy.