Look Within, Dig Deep
My mother does not like fortune tellers.
She was young. I do not know the exact circumstance or her exact age at the time of her “consultation”, or why she even went, or how she looked or seemed, or what was it that made her voice out, in a question, her one dream: “Will I be able to travel outside of the country?” or what prompted the fortune teller to tell my mother that no, she would not go places. I only know that while my mother was telling me this story many, many years ago, there was still pain in her eyes, and anger, her chin jutting at that defiant angle. The barb – even when it probably was not meant as a barb – had hit home and she could still feel the sting. Even after all the time that had elapsed.
I was told I could not make it, too, but not by a fortune teller.