Mother
Two months had passed since she learned of her son’s illness, and the ground seemed to drop away beneath her feet. She could have imagined almost anything — but not this. Her own death? Yes, she was old enough; she had lived her life. But her son dying? No. That she had never expected, and she could not accept it.
At first she tried to stay calm. As calm as she could manage. She waited for the test results to be confirmed, her heart tight in her chest, and the questions spilled out again and again: How? Why? What happens now? There was no cure — she knew that all too well. But how long could he live? In what way? How dangerous was he to others, and how dangerous were others to him?
As the days dragged on, the truth grew heavier and harder to bear. It had come out of nowhere. What if the relatives found out? What would they say? And her husband most of all — he would want to kill Panagiotis. Not that he didn’t love him. But an illness like this was a stain too heavy for either of them to carry.
At first she urged Panagiotis to tell no one. Whenever they were alone, she kept her distance, careful not to touch him, and then the shouting would begin. Each day the anger burned hotter. She needed someone to blame, a culprit, a reason — anything to pour her rage into. Day after day she watched her dreams for her only son crumble. And with them, she felt herself falling apart.
So when Panagiotis announced he was going on this journey in search of a miracle, she welcomed the decision. At least she wouldn’t have to look at him for a few days. Maybe he would even come back healthy. In any case, she herself desperately needed some peace. She was exhausted from hiding everything from her husband. She no longer had the strength to keep pretending.
He left on Maundy Thursday at noon. She wished him a safe journey and a Happy Easter, and asked him to call the moment he arrived. Once he was gone, the house felt emptier than ever. Mechanically she lit a cigarette. Her eyes filled with tears again. These past days her intuition had been screaming at her. She had seen him growing thinner, refusing to eat. She knew it, she felt it — soon she would be looking at a dead son. Dead at thirty. No. This could not be happening to her. She had imagined him raising children, spoiling grandchildren the way she had once spoiled him. If he had to die, at least let it be quick. Anything but watching him waste away slowly. And what would she tell the world? How could she hide something like this?
She felt as if she were suffocating. She crushed the cigarette, threw on a jacket, and rushed out into the street. Her feet carried her to the small neighborhood church. It had been years since she had gone inside. She believed, but she rarely attended. Fear, perhaps. Or simple neglect.
She stood before the icon of the Virgin Mary, crossed herself, bowed, and sat quietly to one side. She stared at the gentle face until the tears came — deep, heavy sobs that seemed to tear something loose inside her. She wept for a long time. She asked forgiveness for her own sins and begged for her child’s salvation.
She returned the next day. This time she did not cry. After bowing, she prayed with all the strength left in her soul:
Help us, my Lady. Help my child to live, and I promise I will come to Your house and to the house of Your Son. I will light two large candles for You.
Holy Saturday dawned. She had fallen into a deep sleep, the kind she had longed for after so many sleepless nights. In her dream she was in Jerusalem, in the Holy Courtyard. She passed through the great double doors, turned left, and stood before the Holy Sepulchre. Two tall men dressed in white guarded the entrance. She turned away and entered the Church of the Resurrection. The vast space was empty. Only one woman in black stood praying before the sanctuary. As she drew closer, the woman slowly rose, turned, and smiled. She knew that face…
She woke with a start. Dawn was breaking. Her husband snored beside her. She rose, lifted the oil lamp to the icon of the Virgin, and felt her heart leap. It was Her.
She stepped onto the balcony and looked up at the fading stars. For the first time in months, a small, fragile hope stirred inside her. She remembered every step she had taken in her dream. It was very strange. She had never been there, nor had she watched any program to know what the place looked like. She would turn on the television later to watch the broadcast of the Holy Fire ceremony.
She bit her lip. Panagiotis hadn’t called all day. What if something had happened to him? She tried to push away the dark thoughts. The dream had been good. If only it came true. Even if it meant she would die herself.
She went back inside and busied herself with the housework. Housework had been her refuge all this time. When noon arrived, she dropped everything and planted herself in front of the television. And as soon as the broadcast from Jerusalem began and she saw the Holy Sepulchre and the Church of the Resurrection, she realized they were exactly as she had seen them in her sleep, just a few hours before.
When the Patriarch emerged holding the candles and blessing the crowd, the phone rang. She ran to answer it. And then, through the sound of bells and the noise of the crowd, she heard her child’s voice on the other end: “Christ is Risen, Mother. Happy Easter!”
His voice was thick with emotion, but happy. Truly happy. She swallowed her tears and wished him the same. It was the first time in a long while that he had spoken to her with such joy. Their conversation ended quickly. The hope that had nestled in her heart now grew stronger.
When evening came, she did her hair, put on her best suit, applied a little makeup, took her husband by the arm, and set off for church. When they arrived, he looked at her, smiled, and said:
“First time in days I’ve seen you smile.”
“The truth is, I’m always tired on holidays with all the housework.”
“And it’s the first time Panagiotis isn’t celebrating Easter with us.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s grown up now; it’s time he made his own life.”
After the “Christ is Risen” service, they kissed and returned home.
The days passed quickly, and the day of Panagiotis’s return arrived. In the few days he had been away, he had come back a different man. Optimistic, happy, and heavier than when he had left. The next day he went to the hospital for his tests. And he continued to be happy, despite the strong medicines the doctors had loaded him with and the side effects they caused.
Four years have passed. Panagiotis is still alive. And he is doing so well that no one would guess how gravely ill he was. On her part, she stopped blaming him and stopped avoiding his touch. It was as if fear had vanished from her soul. When they had saved enough money, it was her turn to go to Jerusalem to fulfill her vow. It was the second time in her life she cried, when she reached the tomb of the Virgin Mary. And again she prayed, for there was no greater “thank you” she could offer from the bottom of her heart.
