Chapter 3

My mom became a widow.

Justin and I were left without a dad.

Mom took Justin to get Dad's coffin made.

At the same time, she was busy putting the family land under Justin's name.

"That damn girl. God knows if she did it on purpose and got your dad killed," Mom said. "Now that your dad's gone, you're the only guy left in the family, so all the land should go to you.

That bitch isn't getting a single scrap of it."

While Justin and Mom were sorting out the paperwork, Dad's body was still lying in the courtyard, covered with a white sheet.

I was outside the house, making mud pies.

The pot, still holding some poisoned mashed potatoes, was taken out of the kitchen by Grandma.

I thought she'd just set it on fire.

After all, the doctor had made it clear that rat poison was super toxic, and even a tiny bit could kill a man. Just rinsing it with water wasn't nearly enough to get rid of the poison.

But Grandma just kept watch over the pot.

She didn't go looking for any wood to start a fire for a long time.

Then, she took a ladle, scooped out a big portion of potatoes, and scattered them into the chicken coop beside her. There were thirty or forty adult hens in the chicken coop.

We'd been raising them for almost two years.

Back when Dad was still around, he'd always say that after Christmas, he'd sell the chickens to make some money and do some repairs on the house.

He even dreamed that if there was any extra cash, he could buy a motor tricycle for the family.

Then he could take Mom, Justin, and Grandma out to the city for a day.

I just stood there, mesmerized, watching as Grandma scooped potatoes from the pot and tossed them into the chicken coop, ladle after ladle.

The chickens swarmed the mashed potatoes, their wings flapping with excitement.

Every time another portion of potatoes landed, the hens started clucking away in delight, their chatter echoing through the yard.

Grandma muttered to herself, "If people can't eat it, then let the hens have it. No sense in letting good food go to waste. These potatoes are wasted on you, filthy creatures.

"Eat up, so when Christmas comes, I can sell you off and spend every penny on my precious grandson."

It was one of those days when the sun seemed almost too perfect.

Dad's body was left out in the yard, the sun beating down, and the smell was starting to creep in.

Grandma stayed at her work all day until dusk.

People who came to mourn left, and everything went quiet.

Dad's coffin sat out in the yard all night.

That night seemed to stretch on forever.

The yard was eerily quiet.

Mom said, "Now that your dad's gone, this place doesn't even feel like home anymore. Why does it feel so quiet and lonely?"

She hugged Dad's photo, her tears falling one after another.

Justin nestled close to her, trying to comfort her. "Don't cry, Mom. I'll look after you from now on. One day, I'm gonna make loads of money. I'll buy you a big house and a new car."

Mom just held Justin, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing.

Grandma watched them play lovely mother and son. As if she'd completely forgotten she was the real reason her son was dead, she went to bed and fell asleep almost right away.

Only I, leaning against the window, was watching every little thing going on in the chicken coop.

Those chickens that were all excited earlier today were now stumbling around, dazed, and collapsing one after another in their coop.

I rubbed the bruises on my body and couldn't help but let a smile creep onto my face.

Early the next morning, Mom got up to take care of Dad's funeral, only to discover that every chicken in the coop was stone dead.

Stunned, she shouted for Grandma to come over.

Grandma paused and then said, "Could it be some kind of chicken sickness?"

Mom shook her head. "I don't think so. If it were, it wouldn't start with us. We're in the middle of the village."

Suddenly, Mom glanced around and then turned to Grandma. "Grace, did you give the chickens those potatoes?"

Grandma froze for a moment, looking a bit lost and acting all innocent. "Wait, you mean the potatoes... The chickens weren't supposed to eat them?"

Mom sank to the ground and smacked her thighs hard, over and over.

She was so heartbroken that she couldn't even cry.

"Peter died after eating those potatoes, and you still gave them to the chickens?" Mom cried out, her voice shaking. "It's basically a death sentence for the chickens. How could you not see that?

"We had about forty chickens, and we relied on them for Christmas. Now what? What are we gonna do?"

What were we gonna do now? Of course, Grandma didn't know.

She'd only been worried about not letting the potatoes go to waste. It never once crossed her mind that giving them to the chickens would end up killing them, too.

Just then, the old cook, David, who handled all the village events, knocked on our door.

He said to Mom, "Peter's funeral is today, right? So, we'll still have the funeral reception tonight. Same as always, two meat dishes, five veggie ones, and three desserts. That's how we do it, yeah?"

Mom's eyes were still red from crying, and she was in no mood to deal with whatever David was saying. She just nodded, barely registering his words.

David thought she was still lost in grief over Dad's death, and he just sighed. "I'm sorry for that. But life has to go on.

"I spoke with the village chief, and he's going to ask everyone to donate. That way, you'll have some money to help you get by for a while."

Mom snapped out of it.

David went on, "And to make sure everyone feels good about giving their money, let's make the reception look a little nicer tonight. Maybe throw in an extra soup, chicken, duck, fish, whatever works."

Mom was totally out of it.

Grandma saw Mom standing there like she'd lost her soul, so she cut in, "Just make chicken soup. Serve up all our chickens at the reception. That'll be plenty."

David nodded. He reassured Mom a bit before leaving.