What Marie carried

Denzil Jayasinghe

2 min read

·

May 14, 2025

“If you bring those illegitimate children to church, I’ll call the priest,” Sebastian said. His voice cut through the still morning like a blade drawn not from faith, but from something older — disgust masked as righteousness.

Anna heard it while hanging clothes in the back garden. The clothes, wet and heavy in her hands, sagged toward the earth. She stood still for a moment, letting the words hang there. She didn’t look toward him immediately; she didn’t want to give his anger shape. When she finally did speak, her voice was steady, level.

“That’s a heavy word to use, Sebastian,” she said. “What has Marie done, except try to raise her children in the same faith we all inherited?”

Sebastian stood beyond the low hedge that separated their homes, his arms crossed, his sarong already sticking to his back with sweat. He was the acolyte at the church — a God’s servant meant to uphold grace and community — but he wielded morality like a weapon.

“She’s a disgrace,” he said. “A shame to all of us.”

Anna didn’t flinch. She knew his type. People who prayed loudly and hated their neighbours quietly. She didn’t reply again. Instead, her mind wandered to Marie — her younger sister — walking to work each day under the weight of judgment and sun. Marie, who’d refused to hide, refused to vanish. Who went on working in the brass factory, her belly growing, her resolve hardening. Who stayed, even after her man had vanished like so many promises made in secret.

Marie had not cried for sympathy. She bore her burden plainly, her twins now a year old and full of laughter. She whispered Hail Marys over their sleeping bodies and soot from their feet. Anna knew her sister did not expect kindness, only silence.

Sebastian was still talking when Anna interrupted him, not with defense, but deflection. “And why have you moved the fence again?” she asked, voice quieter now. “I’ve seen Lucy shifting the stones. Even the jack tree’s roots are nearly on our side.”

It was true. Anna had watched Sebastian’s wife, thin and expressionless, inch the trunks further each week when no one was looking.

What is it that makes people so small? Anna wondered. These two, who took communion every Sunday. Who quoted scripture, wore religious medals and hid their cruelty inside it.

Mary, thei babies grandmother, emerged from the house slowly, her spine curved like a question. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips — not to scold, not to intervene, but simply to bear witness. Her face held neither anger nor surprise, only a long, tired knowing.

Further down the lane, Denzil paused in his walk. He had heard Sebastian’s voice before. Only last week, Lucy had argued with his mother too — about the fence on the other side of their compound.

In this small neighbourhood, boundaries were never just about land. They were lines drawn in hearts and histories, in what people dared to say, and what others were forced to endure in silence.