Radon is one of the noble gases in the periodic table. It is the heaviest, naturally occurring one among them. Due to its size, it is the most likely to establish compounds with other elements, compared to the other noble gases. However, its radioactivity easily breaks the bonds that are established between Radon and other elements. Thus, Radon has very few known compounds.

Radon forms in the radioactive decay chain of Uranium, which then forms Thorium, then Radium, and finally Radon. Radon condenses to form a solid that glows with yellow light due to its radioactivity. The half-life of Radon changes depending on the isotope at hand, but the longest half-life detected is around 92 hours.

Radon naturally occurs underground, and does not dissolve much in water or other liquids there. When it leaks above surface in the form of gas, it tends to accumulate in the not-well-ventilated parts of the houses, e.g. basements. Exposure to Radon gas is linked with cancer, and so it is considered as a health hazard. On the other side, the hot springs that contain trace amounts of Radon gas are used rarely to cure heart disease.

The following is an allegorical story in the form of a letter about how Radon develops in nature.

I am the only survivor from a quadruplet. One of my sisters survived only 108 minutes after birth. The death of the second one followed about half hour later. I spent my childhood with my only remaining sister. Our mother was not there either, because she had died while giving birth to us.

As we were growing into our adolescence, we shared many secrets with my sister, be them adventurous or romantic. She was a sister, a close friend, and sometimes a mom. When she died in her flourishing age, I not only lost my third sister but also lost a mom for the second time.

Since then, without bothering myself whether they are friend or foe, I let people approach me. I show affinity to them so much so that I am considered as the most sociable noble. When they start enjoying the beauties displayed on me, I am stressed by my need of privacy and security. And, I easily push everyone away by intimidating them with the very beauties they were attracted to.

So, life has been a bottomless solitude for me… Yes, being alone is part of being noble, and I need my privacy in my ivory tower. But I’d rather not have impenetrable walls between me and people.

What a discrepancy! I have a habit of intimidating people to push them away, but I am complaining from an endless solitude at the same time… Why am I like this? It feels as if there is an unknown person in me, over which I have no control, who is doing things using my body. Should I cry for help: I am stolen!

I thought about this a lot. Was it a psychological inheritance I received from the family? You know that my mother died when giving birth to me and that my sisters followed her. My grandmother also died when giving birth to my mother, and my grand-grandmother died when giving birth to my grandmother. I don’t know if it is this strangeness that makes me instinctively seek solitude, so much so that my husband could not stand me. I told him that our relationship could only survive in the polar cold places, and he said he can stay cold but not in a place where there is no one else. Eventually, our marriage ended, after which I realized that I was pregnant.

But life goes on, you know, whether you are a noble who pathetically seeks solitude, or if your mother died when giving birth to you, or if you are a pregnant mom left to herself… “The great gears of life turn with irresistible momentum. You either keep pace with it, or get smashed in it.” That’s what my mother said in her letter to me. And that letter is all I have of her. Though, however much I would like her to be with me, and share my joys of success and sorrows of failure. Maybe she would reveal precious life lessons to me, or whisper her secrets into my ear. Maybe she would reprimand me sometimes… Not a single moment lived with her, not even a smack… I wished that this not be the lot of my baby, but how?

I thought of Prophet Abraham’s wife, Hagar. Alarmed by her baby’s cries, she had rushed between two distant hills in search of finding some people to come for help. God had replied to her efforts by creating a spring in the middle of the desert, just near her, and guiding travelers there.

Following Hagar’s example, I tried taking refuge near people so that my baby would not be in a lonely world. In order not to disturb them, I chose their least used places. But people cast me out of there, lest I contract some illness. I tried fancy yellow dresses to make myself look friendly. But, instead of becoming friends, they put me in glass chambers. I tried to help people with some of their diseases, but except a few, they shunned me since I was too risky to be adopted into medical practice.

Oh my God, despite all my efforts, my baby was going to come into a solitary world like her mom’s. I knew I was going to be alone when giving birth, and so was my baby. There was a sour smile on my face every time I thought of her…

But maybe… Maybe one day, God would guide travelers here, and she could join them, and prosper wherever she ends up with. Maybe she would have a stable family, and become the mother of many. And I hope, even in her well-established state then, she could still keep her lineage at heart, from our grandest grandmother all the way down to her mother: Uranium, Thorium, Radium, and, me, Radon.

What could I do to make sure that my daughter holds on to her past? Could I write a letter, just like my mother left to me? Maybe that was a good option, since I inherited from my mother all the letters left from mother to daughter starting with the grandma Uranium. Yes, I could abide by the tradition of letters, and tell my daughter how much I loved her even before I could hold her in my arms. I could tell her that she had appeared in my dark night like a bright star, although she was yet in my womb. Maybe this way, she could feel at ease when with people, unlike her mother. She could make real friends and be happy with them, even if I won’t see her once.

Yes, I won’t see you, sweetie. It is what the doctors told while giving me your glad tidings: that I had cancer, and that my body would not sustain a birth. I had to choose between carrying you and a life without you. I chose to live with you, my precious, even if that meant the end of my life when yours bloomed. When you are going to be reading this letter, I’ll be watching you with your aunts. Shine and make us smile with your beauty.

Love,
Your mom Radon

“Mom! Mom, wake up!” I cried shaking her by her shoulders, determined to stop her dreaming before something terrible happened to the boy.

Mom sat up robotically, opened her eyes, and as the contours of her room sat in place under the moonlight, she took a deep breath and urged me back to sleep. Alas, I spent the rest of the night wondering who the lost boy was. Was it my brother, the only son in our family? Did the dream mean that something bad would happen to him?

Although my curiosity almost killed me like the proverbial cat, I dared not ask Mom about the dream which continued visiting her in the following months. For one thing, dreams good or bad were never told in our family. Mom believed that if you put a dream into words, if you articulated it even in a whisper, you pronounced an undeniable invitation for the dream to become true.

“Dreams,” Mom often said, “should be left alone. Dreams are tricky. Everything you see in them stand for something else in the real world. Rats stand for money, money for gossip, crack and holes in houses for deaths in the household.”

So I kept my peace and never talked with anyone about the matter.

One day, long after that night, I was looking for a dear necklace of mine which I couldn’t find, having hidden it too well for my own good. As it often happens, if you look into all possible hiding places in a household, you are bound to find unexpected things—like your sister’s secret diary in the wardrobe or your brother’s savings under the mattress. But what are the chances that you will find pictures of a brother you never knew!

At first, I couldn’t make sense of those two pictures. One was a photo of a baby in his crib with eyes half open and the other was a shot of the same baby with Mom, in her younger years, leaning over the crib as if to place a kiss on the baby’s face. Mom’s face seemed so sad that I wanted to tear up the photo right there.

I went to my older sister instead and asked her, “Who is this baby?” My sister snatched the photos from me and reproachfully said, “Why can’t just you leave anything alone?”

She immediately headed toward mom’s bedroom, apparently knowing the hiding place. Then she stopped midway and replied without turning around, “He is our brother. He died from a fever when he was ten months old. And don’t ask Mom about him. After all these years, she still cries when she speaks of him.”

A tender feeling of longing, gripped my heart. “What was his name?” I asked.

“Leonard,” she replied. “He would have been fifteen-years-old now, had he lived.”

I wanted to take another look at the photos and stroke with my fingers the little face of my brother, but I dreaded my sister’s anger. She went into Mom’s bedroom and closed the door shut.

On the days that followed, I started fantasizing about what it would have been like for me to have another brother, four years older. I imagined us going to school together, his arm on my shoulder, me proud of my protective brother, daring the bullies to come even closer.

I imagined covering up for him when he came home late and he telling me first, before anyone else, about the girl whom he loved. I smiled as tears welled up in my eyes when I thought of those happy moments that never came to pass. It was then that I willed myself to believe death couldn’t be the end of all things. A sweet hope invaded my heart that one day I would see him, hug him, and catch up on missed happiness.

I wanted so much to share this hope with Mom so that she could accept her loss, so that her nightmares would stop tormenting her, so that those two photos would come out of hiding and join the light in the family album. But I never had the courage to confront her grief. I had understood by then that no matter how many living children a mother has, her heart will always mourn the death of a child.

One afternoon, five years later, I overheard my aunt talking in low tones to Mom. “He would have been twenty years old today,” she said while she stroked Mom’s hand in sympathy.

“It’s kismet!” Mom said, taking a deep breath. “It’s the destiny.” Her voice quavered, but she did not cry. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

After this, the photos came out of hiding and took their place on my mom’s dresser. Yet, Mom’s nightmares did not vanish. They continued to torture her. One thing remained a mystery to me. Why did Mom never ask, “Where is my boy?” It was always the boy? And during all these years, why hadn’t she uttered his name in her dream even once?

Every time I heard her search in the darkness of the night for the nameless boy, I wanted to whisper into her subconscious before waking her up, “Mom, you have to let things go. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t meant to be.” But I never did. ***

Tonight, Mom is having another of her nightmares, but I won’t wake her up as I have before. I watch her turn in her sleep, hoping that her dream, left undisturbed this time, will relieve her from the burden of her conscience. Tonight, I know Mom is looking for some other boy. One she doesn’t dare to own.

We were talking this afternoon about how life had changed for her and Dad after each of us, their children had married and left home. Mom didn’t enjoy her empty nest as much as one would expect.

“People always remarked that my five children were too much for any normal person to handle, but look at us now,” she said, taking in the tidy and spotless living room. “The house is quite, empty, just me and your Dad and… the memories. It would have been nice to have another child for our senior years, someone who would tie us to life with bittersweet worries.”

A wave of sadness covered her face, a feeling of regret I couldn’t quite grasp. Did she remember Leonard? But he still wouldn’t have been the child of my parents’ senior years. What else?

“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said insinuating on his death. “Destiny.” Mom’s eyes watered and her voice trembled. “Sometimes you pick your destiny.”

“But what could you do? The doctors couldn’t reduce his fever and…”

“I am not talking about Leonard,” she interrupted and then paused in pain. Seeing my shock, Mom, with great difficulty, told the story of her last child. While listening to her, I realized that a house cannot hold enough hiding places for the secrets of the past.

“When you were nine years old, I discovered I was pregnant again,” Mom continued.

“Everybody was so against the idea of me giving birth to that baby. Your father worried about our already strained finances. My doctor warned me about the difficulties of a labor at forty-one. Your eldest sister, who was newly engaged at that time, complained of how ashamed she would feel to tell her fiancé’s family that her mother was pregnant when it was her own time to have children. My friends told me that women my age often gave birth to children with disabilities. I felt so helpless and scared, so alone.” She let out a sigh.

Gathering her strength, she continued. “People push you to take one definitive step and leave you to bear the burden alone afterwards. It was hard for me. I regretted it the moment it was done.” Mom sniffed and closed her eyes, struggling for a deep breath.

“As I was about to leave the hospital, the nurse told me the baby was a boy. It was then that I remembered Leonard, my son whom I had lost in infancy. I know, it sounds crazy, but at that moment I felt as if the soul of Leonard had made a second attempt to come to this world, to my arms, and I had brutally rejected him.”

Mom couldn’t continue any longer. Her chest was heaving for air. I took her hand and stroked it lovingly. Who of us hasn’t done things that we terribly regret? Don’t the tears of remorse expiate the past? Shouldn’t we forgive ourselves as we are asked to forgive others? Mom listened, nodded, but she did not speak a word. She excused herself and went to her room. Tonight as I lay in the dark by her side, I pray Mom will find the boy in her dream, present her tears to him, and find peace in reconciliation.

They took their muddy shoes and heavy coats off. Dad, looking very sad, sat down on the sofa while my mom whispered something quickly to my sister before vanishing to her bedroom. I could only catch some ominous words like, “…dead…. wake…. we got to go.” My sister did not ask any questions. In no time, Mom came out of her room dressed in black, kissed me on the cheeks, and left. Dad, who up to that moment had been silently gazing at the brown carpet, robotically stood up and followed her. On his way out, he reminded my sister to lock the door.

My sister turned the key twice as if the Big Bad Wolf might knock on the door in a minute. Then she turned off the TV-custom dictates that there is no music or laughter in a mourning house. We sat there looking at each other in silence. My sister looked pitiful, so I gave her some time to digest whatever Mom had whispered to her. Meanwhile, I started to decode what my little radar had caught.

Someone is dead-no doubt about it. Since the news was given sotto voce, it had to have been a shameful death like committing suicide or being shot while stealing. Or, God forbid, it might be an awful death like being crushed by a train or chopped to pieces by a revenge murderer. Since my parents were grieving, it probably involved somebody significant to us. Could it be one of their coworkers? A relative? At this point I grew so anxious I knew I would explode if I did not ask. “Who is dead?” I asked in a trembling voice. “Dad’s stepmother,” my sister answered matter-of-factly.

The answer took me by surprise because I did not know Dad had a stepmother. I knew he had lost his mother suddenly at age six and had lost his father ten years later. I sensed a mystery concealed before me and I could have sworn my sister knew more. The question was how I could fish out the secrets my sister’s heart held so faithfully.

My sister, an ordinary eighteen-year-old, was nice to me most of the time except when I asked too many questions and messed up her drawers. She would never repeat what she knew about her friends and acquaintances, so at times I felt my sister was a mysterious person and I imagined her heart was full of secrets.

“Dad’s stepmother?” I repeated it in my mind over and over trying to define what it meant to me. I knew of only one stepmother, a pretty infamous one for that matter: Snow White’s stepmother. She was mean and cruel. Some people would rejoice at such a person’s death. Yet, everybody was sad. I made up my mind to go ahead and ask my sister no matter what the consequences. My assumptions were taking me nowhere. “Where did she live?” I asked, expecting to be hushed. “In our town,” my sister answered. “Is she nice?” I asked, then corrected myself. “I mean, was she nice?” My sister nodded. Seeing her handle my interrogation calmly, I was encouraged to ask more. Mercifully, my sister spared me all the sweating by revealing the story on her own.

“Dad was six years old when his mother died. Grandpa married again right away so that somebody would take care of his little boy. He chose to marry a close relative of his first wife. Apparently, everybody was surprised that an attractive man with a high standard of education married someone so plain and uneducated. But I guess he only cared that a relative of Grandma would treat his son nicely. He had three more children with his second wife, two girls and a boy.”

I stood there all ears, almost forgetting to breathe, listening to this astonishing revelation. Not only had I a step-grandmother, but a step-uncle and two step-aunts as well. I forced myself to stop wondering and focus on my sister, who, after taking a deep breath, went on:

“Grandfather was right. She took care of Dad so well that she didn’t make any difference between her own children and him. She continued to be good to him even after Grandfather died ten years later. She never remarried. She worked hard to make ends meet, and Dad, because he was the eldest child, helped by dropping out of high school to work full time. That was when he took evening courses and learned to be an electrical repairman.

“At twenty-six, Dad married Mom. I heard that his stepmother loved Mom and boasted to her neighbors about what a fine lady her son had married. In the beginning, everything was fine and they all lived happily together in the same house. After a while, Dad started to give less and less to the family budget and spent more and more from his pay on gifts and movie theater tickets. Mom and Dad used to like to go to the movies every week in those days.

“One night Dad’s stepmother apparently complained. She reminded Dad that she was having a hard time paying the bills. Dad accused her of being interfering and jealous of his love for his wife. His stepmother must have felt humiliated because she vowed that unless he apologized and changed his ways, she wouldn’t speak to him again. Dad insisted he had done no wrong and saw no reason to apologize. Both of them must have gone to bed feeling sore and angry at each other.

The next day, when his stepmother came home from work, most likely hoping that the new day might have helped him to see things in their true color, she found that Dad and Mom had packed up their stuff and moved out. She must have felt betrayed. The sting in her heart, I reckon, made her swear an oath that she never broke. She sent word to Dad telling him that from now on she would have nothing to do with him and warned him never to come back.” My sister stopped her narration and it felt as if time had stopped, too.

“This is too awful to be true,” I mumbled in disbelief. “Did they ever speak again?” I asked, hoping against hope. My sister shook her head. “Neither she nor her children ever spoke to our parents.” My sister continued, “They saw each other almost every day on the street, in the shops, at the stadium, at the hospital, at the post office, you name it. But they changed paths or ignored each other.” She shook her head. “Pride is such a terrible thing sometimes,” she concluded, and I could not have agreed more.

“You know, you met her once!” My sister startled me with this exciting remark. “I did? When? Where?” I impatiently looked into her eyes. “Remember the day when you hurt your knee in the park and when we were on our way back home, and you were limping, two old ladies stopped us in the middle of the road?”

“Yes, I remember,” I interrupted her. Although it had happened almost five years ago I recalled the incident clearly because that peculiar encounter had made quite an impression on me. The intensity with which one of the old ladies looked at me, the way my sister looked around as if she did not want to get caught doing something wrong, had naturally not escaped my curious eye.

“I remember, one of the old ladies kissed you on the cheeks. Then she looked at me and asked her friend, ‘Is this his youngest daughter?’ Her friend said yes and then the first lady hugged me, wiped tears from my face with a tissue, and gave me two candies. Then you pulled me away. You said we were late and our parents would be worried. I followed you but I was looking behind, waving back at the nice lady because she made me feel so special. Later, when I kept asking you who she was, you hushed me. You were angry and sorry at the same time. I even saw you wiping your eyes. I thought you were crying because she didn’t give you any candies.”

“No, silly,” my sister tried to laugh, though I sensed that the same mood of anger and sorrow had overtaken her. “I was crying,” she explained, “for all the things we missed. Every day I came home from school with our neighbor’s son, passing by their door, stopping by just to breathe in the wonderful smell of baking bread and to envy the big smile of his grandmother, knowing quite well that a cold and empty home was waiting for me to turn the key. I was angry with Dad because his pride was depriving us of a God-given right-the wonderful presence of a grandmother. Why did everyone in town just stand by and watch this tragedy? Everyone was pretending to mind their business. No one had the courage to intervene and bring it to an end.”

My sister started crying and I felt pity for us my eyes watered too. Who knows what beautiful bedtime stories she might have known, who knows what delicious meals she could have prepared, and whether she would have had the ear to listen to me-the ear my mom, who worked full time, never had.

“But why did she kiss me twice and give me two candies?” I asked, almost to myself, fearing that my sister would reprimand me for such a stupid question. “She…,” my sister sniffed trying to collect her voice, ”she worked in the only day care our town had. So she practically took care of me and our big sister and big brother as a part of her job for four whole years each. When you were born she had retired. I guess she was sad that she never got to hold you as a baby.” I could hold the tears no longer. Her soft kiss on my cheeks and her compassionate, intense look lingered in my mind. She would have made a wonderful grandmother.

The doorbell startled us, and we hurried to open the door, wiping the tears on our way. Surprisingly, my parents had returned in much worse shape than they had left. Usually close relatives of the deceased stay at the wake until dawn. My parents had been gone for barely an hour. This time Dad, soaked to the bone with rain, his face swollen red from crying, went straight to their room. Mother looked distressed too. She sat on the coach and took several deep breaths.

“What happened?” asked my sister when she realized that Mom was not going to tell us without prompting. “We were not wanted there,” Mom managed to say before she broke down in tears. I shivered as I imagined someone yelling at my parents, “Get out of here!”

“Who told you that?” my sister demanded.

“Her son,” Mom said. I could not help but note that “her son” would have been our uncle, had all this not happened.

“He shoved us out,” Mom continued, sniffing. “He told us that it’s useless to honor the dead when we had shown her no respect in her lifetime.” That made sense to me as much as I wished it did not.

“What did Dad do?” asked my sister. I was becoming annoyed with Ms. Detective. I was afraid of what was coming next. “What could he do?” Mom took a deep breath. “Your Dad stood there speechless for a few minutes. He couldn’t confront his stepbrother. No one at the wake came to his defense, so we left the house in humiliation. He wept all the way home,” Mom said breaking into tears again.

A deep sadness flooded my heart as I realized that our step-grandmother had taken with her to the grave any chance of reconciliation and that I would never come to meet my uncles and aunts. I left Mom to my sister’s questioning and went to check on my dad. The door of their room was ajar. He was sitting on the bed, his back bent, his gaze fixed on the floor. I wished I could read his mind, but more than anything I wished I could console him. But how could I?

There sat my dad, a middle-aged man, proud father of a son and three daughters. There sat my dad, a diligent follower of politics who never missed the evening news in the election season. There sat my dad, a faithful patron of the coffee shop, and a big fan of soccer who could never get enough of the Brazil team at the World Cup. There sat a man sobbing like a child with his head between his palms. I wondered if he felt like a loser. For some unknown reason I could not side with him, although my heart was breaking with pity. And suddenly, I realized that I had spent the whole afternoon utterly fascinated by my sister’s account of my parents’ sins. Immediately, I felt sick and afraid. Did disloyalty flow in our veins? Was that to be the inheritance in our family?

Right at that moment Dad raised his head and looked at me with an expression pleading for something neither I nor anybody else breathing on earth could grant him: forgiveness. Avoiding my reproachful look, he raised his fists and started hitting his graying temples, shouting painfully to himself, “Ungrateful, Ungrateful!”

I could not stand watching him any longer. I backed out and closed the door. And at every rapid beat of my heart I prayed to God to have mercy on us all for what we had done to our parents and to show us a way of atonement.

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

She stopped in front of a vast puddle. “What do you think? Is it possible?” she asked her reflection in the murky water. “No way,” snapped back the image. “With a bunch of brothers and sisters and cousins donating their hand-me-downs every year you stand no chance.”

“Oh well! Hope springs eternal,” muttered the little girl and avenged the answer by stomping on the cruel “other.”

She hurried up to the school just around the corner. There was no one in sight. She was late again. Teachers’ voices blended from the broken windows. She entered her classroom. The teacher let her take her seat with a reproachful look that set her cheeks on fire instantly. The little girl wondered how her cheeks could burn while her feet were ice cold.

She scanned the class discreetly after she had taken her seat. All she saw was a bunch of freezing kids, a door that would not close, and windows that, like her shoes, welcomed everything in. She tried to think of something funny to lift up her spirit. Alas! Even jokes were scarce in her life. Patience was the only thing she had in abundance to help her survive till the end of the school day.

The little girl took the same path in the opposite direction toward home, lost in her thoughts. She felt very insignificant and the fact that her problem seemed irrelevant to the rest of the world increased her desperation.

* * *

At home Mom heard the little girl bark a terrible cough by the burning stove. She fixed her stare on the little shoes drying nearby, then grabbed the shoes and checked them as she had done several times before, only to confirm that in their desolate state the shoes could not stand one more nail. They were about to fall apart. Now it was Mom’s turn to worry.

“Mom, let me buy her new shoes!” Big Sister saved the day. She was volunteering to buy them from her pocket money, usually spent on stuff for her trousseau. Mom consented to Big Sister’s proposal, despite Grandma’s strong belief that it was past the time for her to get married anyway.

The little heart leapt with joy. “For real? Brand new shoes? Tomorrow?”

* * *

The next day came with a lethargic sun, as much anticipated tomorrows always do. The little girl was anxious.

“Let’s go!” The two sisters walked along the street, the big one squeezing her money, the little one squeezing her heart to keep it in place.

The shoe store struck the little girl with terror. It was unpleasantly cold. The saleswoman snailed around, making things worse. Most unfortunately, there was nothing on the metal grid shelves except for a pair of papa-sized boots and a couple of black slippers. Her little heart sank.

The saleswoman and Big Sister exchanged pleasantries. The saleswoman spoke annoyingly slowly as if chatting for the first time in a very long while. Finally the chitchat was over.

“I would like to buy a new pair of shoes for my sister,” Big Sister said, emphasizing the “new” unnecessarily. She was handling the situation so calmly you would think she was buying her daily bread.

The saleswoman stared at the little girl from head to toe and back, though all she needed to inspect were her feet. “I don’t think I have anything for her,” she said matter-of-factly, ”but let me check to be sure.” She disappeared into the unlit back. The little girl wished the saleswoman might disappear completely rather than come back empty-handed. She could take waiting a lifetime, but facing empty hands would be unbearable.

The saleswoman came back with a box. “What’s her size?” The big sister muttered the number. “A one-size-fits-all size,” translated the little heart. “This pair is one size smaller, but this is the closest I can get.” The saleswoman was obviously paying attention only to Big Sister.

The little girl took the right shoe. She almost swooned at the smell of new leather. She squeezed her foot into the shoe. “It hurts, but don’t show it,” said her little heart. She suddenly turned into Cinderella’s stepsister, ready to cut off her toes if need be. Big Sister, not easily fooled, bent down and felt the curled toes. “No, no, you can’t walk straight with these shoes.” The little girl stepped back, defiant. “You’ll have to cut my feet off to take them off me!” her eyes challenged.

The saleswoman, sensing a storm approaching, made a move to prevent the family crisis. “Why don’t you come on Monday?” she said. “A new shipment will be available then.” The girl watched the saleswoman’s face intently for a wink at Big Sister. Deadly serious, the saleswoman did not even blink. With no other option, the little girl dragged herself out of the store.

The two sisters walked silently on the street, the big one squeezing the money, the little one clenching her fists. Too bad there was no one to punch. The little heart was ice cold, yet a flickering flame of faint hope kept burning in a far corner.

“Who am I kidding?” thought the little girl. “Even if she gets new supplies, who says she will get my size? Besides, in two days there is plenty of time for my sister to change her mind or spend the money on some you-can’t-find-it–elsewhere bedspread. By Monday there is even enough time, God forbid, for some distant relative to materialize from nowhere with a pair of very old, smelly shoes, and that would be a nightmare.”

They entered their small apartment. The little girl went straight to her room and sat on her bed, painfully hearing Big Sister explain to Mom and Grandma why they had returned empty-handed. She heard the door open slowly, but she did not turn to look, knowing that no one else but Grandma could be coming in.

Grandma sat by her side with a frown. In her story-telling voice she spoke:

“Once upon a time, there lived a young man in a very far land. He walked down the streets of his little town looking at his shabby shoes, feeling very unhappy, and wondering why he couldn’t have a new pair of shoes. At that moment he passed by a beggar leaning on an oak tree, his hand stretched out asking for alms. As he looked closely he realized that the beggar had no legs. The young man grew very sad and felt ashamed of himself. ‘Shame on me! This man doesn’t have feet and I am feeling miserable because I don’t have decent shoes.’ He reproached himself and gave thanks to God for his feet.” Smiling and caressing little girl’s hair, Grandma continued, “See, my dear, do not despair. God willing, you will get what you don’t have. Meanwhile be thankful for what you already have. Contentment of the heart is the greatest of treasures.”

The little girl, having understood very swiftly the message of the story could not help but comment, “But Grandma, I want to be grateful for my feet and a pair of new shoes.” Grandma smiled at her and whispered, as if revealing a well-kept secret, “God increases the bounties when we thank him. If you are thankful for your feet, he may grant you a pair of shoes as well. Remember, contentment of the heart is the greatest treasure.” After kissing the little girl on the forehead, she left the room as quietly as she had entered it.

The little girl tried to reason, although her brain was turned upside down. “That seems like good advice. What could I be thankful for?” she asked herself. “Well, I have a wonderful grandmother for a start,” she thought with a smile.

* * *

On Monday afternoon they went back to the store. First, the saleswoman smiled at them, and then she sluggishly disappeared into the back. “Thank goodness this time I was spared the torment of pleasantries,” the little girl thought, relieved.

With a box in her hands and the air of a savior on her face the saleswoman returned. She lifted the lid and handed the right shoe to the little girl. It fit perfectly. Ta da! Boy, would Cinderella be surprised, or should I say jealous! Stepsister or no, this time she got the shoes. Her little heart was overflowing with bliss until Big Sister stepped into the middle of the majestic celebration. Now what?

“The color…,” she said. “Dark red is not a very appropriate color. Only black and brown polishes are available. They’ll soon get muddy.”

“I did my best,” the saleswoman announced in surrender. Little eyes pleaded with Big Sister, the shoebox crushed in an unyielding embrace. With the saleswoman no longer an ally, Big Sister waved the white flag.

They left the store with the new shoes inside the box. The new shoes would look wonderful under her desk tomorrow. The whole school would marvel at them. Her little heart was beating like a crazy bird in a cage. Her prayer had been answered.

Wait a minute! The girl stopped. Remembering what her grandmother had told her, she paused and whispered, “Thank you,” to the One who had given her all bounties.

“I will never forget this day,” the little girl promised.

* * *

But the little girl did forget her promise for many years until the day she witnessed a father trying hard to convince his whining little child that plain shoes are as good as the ones with Pooh Bear printed on them. She once again longed for that sincere thank-you, craving the genuine way it came out of her lips on that memorable day of her life when she got her first ever brand-new shoes.

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.