Inheritance by Rohan Mishra

Mother sidled up to me. She pressed down my swollen belly.

“Saachi has inherited it,” she said.

“No,” I cried. “No!”

Schizophrenia had ravaged Mother. I wanted better for my daughter. I felt Saachi kick. My belly rippled, pushed from inside. Sick like Mother. I turned to her.

“Cut her out,” Mother suggested.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a knife and began to carve. I would find a better womb for Saachi, I promised. In the pooling blood, I saw just one reflection.

I remembered then. After Mother died, we had followed tradition and burnt her, cracked open her skull.