“One grain does not fill a sack, but it helps,” her mother always said, annoying her.

Days turned into weeks and then into years, and her poor mother rented a house and took them off the street. She also sent Ijeoma through school and started a small selling business which somehow fed them, but Ijeoma didn’t still find a reason to be grateful.

The day her mind changed, she woke up like every other day, and ticked one more box, counting down to when she would be able to leave her mother, counting down to the day she would turn eighteen.

The silence was the first indication that something was wrong; her mother sang every morning to her annoyance.

As she peeped into her mother’s corner, she saw her staring into nothingness, drenched and stained with blood from her mouth.

She remembered vaguely hearing her cough during the night, and had done back to sleep when the cough died down.

While she had gone back to sleep, her mother had slept the sleep of death.

Her mother was buried the same week, but Ijeoma never got over missing her.

Ijeoma finally understood that her mother was the one grain.