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They say that if a house is on fire and a woman has to choose between her child and another – her husband, her lover – she will choose the child. What if I told you I would choose differently? What do you think of me now? What if I told you that I am the mother of the neighbor lawn boy who was a terrorist? I love my son that I nearly died giving birth to, but hate the people who kidnapped my son’s mind. And what about the fertilizer I found in his closet and their God who promised him greener grasses. So, I will burn in hell. Imagine, at 3 a.m., I awoke my husband and told him to leave our home. “Leave the house now. There’s a bomb,” I whispered, shaking him with an urgency he had never seen. I practically pushed him out the door. I had to be quick—too quick for him to think, to question. “Carry our daughter. Don’t ask questions, just meet me at the end of the street,” I said, like they were my last words.
As I heard the heavy thud of the front door close, I walked to my son’s room, locked the door, and crawled in his bed. Then I lit a match.
