She looked at what had remained of her son:-
Dust! mere dust!.
The more painful part was…
They said she caused it;
That she had not been a good mother,
That she pampered him to the bone,
That she gave him unnecessary freedom,
That she could have used the rod of correction on him,
That she should have raised him as they had raised theirs.
She knew better;
She had been a good mother,
The best to the best of her knowlege.
Once upon a time, she had been the envy of the very people who scorned her now,
She had walked with her head held high,
She had bragged about the succeses of her son,
But her little boy had failed her: talk about counting your chicks before they hatch.
He had cast a shadow of darkness on her sunny life,
She knows the amount of tears she shed for him,
The sacrifices she made,
The lies she told to save him,
Yet he had dragged her name through the mud,
And then dragged himself to the grave..
Now they say he did so, because she was not a good mother!
She was humiliated and left with nothing, nothing but her tarnished image, tainted name, and her pain.
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