“Amma,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “If you were not my mother…” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t. The gods are listening.” But the gods had already heard. They had heard every unwept tear, every unslept night, every time she washed his clothes and inhaled his scent like a prayer. “Then let them listen,” he said, taking her hand. “Let them hear the truth for once.”