I stepped into her arms, but the warmth didn’t touch me. Turtanu’s words throbbed in my head like a wound that wouldn’t close.
When she drew back, her hands lingered on my face. “Your father would have been proud,” she said softly. “He died fighting for Ugarit, and now you return in victory.”
“Mother.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “We need to talk. I need to know who my father was.”
Her smile faltered, the lines around her mouth deepening. “What are you saying, Lazarus? Your father was a war hero, and he died in battle.”
Amara stepped close, trying to ease the tension. “Come inside,” she said gently. “You’ve been gone for so long. Let’s eat first.” She pressed her lips to my cheek, and for a heartbeat, I caught her mouth again—a silent promise, as soft as a breath.
Inside, the scent of smoke and bread filled the air. My mother laid out what she had—barley loaves still warm from the hearth, goat cheese glazed with honey, dates, figs, and a small jug of watered wine. Amara tore the bread in silence, her hands trembling just enough for me to notice.
I sat at the table. The chair creaked beneath me. Outside, the barley glowed in the sun; inside, the room felt colder than the war camps.
I looked at her. “What was my father’s name?”
Her fingers stilled on the loaf.
“Lazarus,” she said softly, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know what you heard, but your father died a hero.”
“I asked his name, Mother.”
The words came out steady, but they cut the air clean in two.
“All my life, I believed your stories. But Turtanu said he knew every man who ever fought for Ugarit—and my father was not one of them.”
The silence that followed was brief, but it said more than she ever had.
She hesitated—just long enough for the lie to breathe.
“It’s been many years,” she murmured, voice fragile. “Does it matter now?”
“It matters to me.”
The stool scraped against the clay floor as she rose. She turned to the hearth, though the pot there was already warm. Her hands fumbled for the stirring stick as if motion could shield her from truth.
“He was a good man,” she said quietly. “He loved this land. He loved you.”
The fire popped, spitting sparks onto the hearthstones. The smell of burning olive wood thickened, sharp and bitter.
I watched her back—rigid, trembling—her shadow dancing against the wall like a thing that wanted to flee.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her hands froze mid-motion. “Turtanu twists stories,” she said, voice shaking now. “Men like him speak lies for power. You can’t believe every word you hear.”
I pushed back from the table. The sound echoed through the room. Each step I took toward her made the air heavier. The light from the hearth licked across the clay walls, across her shawl, across the lie that sat between us.
“He said my father never fought for Ugarit,” I said quietly. “That if he had, he’d remember him.”
Her breath hitched.
Then everything went still. Even the fire seemed to draw in its breath.
The silence pressed in—thick, and heavy.
I could hear the hum of flies outside, the crackle of barley in the wind, the creak of the roof reeds shifting with heat. Every sound of home twisted against me now.
“Lazarus,” she whispered, her voice raw. “You’re home. Let the war die behind you.”
