Cost of inclusion
I opened my eyes while lying in bed; across the window were the small hills veiled by white clouds. My face was swollen, and my eyes might be red. Breezy air was making my baby hairs flow. I got up from bed and went downstairs. Hearing the sound of tapping wooden stairs, my mom said, “Why are you awake so early? You have already stayed up late packing; go have some sleep.” I saw my mother sitting near the fire furnace making rice in the kitchen. For the first time in my life, I noticed wrinkles, smile lines on her face, and grey hairs. She was smiling, but I knew her heart was crying. How can a parent not be emotional when their child is leaving? It was April, and like every year, Uncle Urmit—a friend of my father—came for the trade of Shirui lily flowers. I went outside where my father and Uncle Urmit were sitting in the garden having a conversation, either about money, politics, or this time maybe about me also, because I was going with him. I hugged my father—he hugged me back...
