“Why does she come?” a woman in the pipe village asked our driver while nodding in my direction.
Translating, the driver explains, she does not understand why I would come here, to India, to a slum, in the heat, to sit with her on a matt in the dirt. People who are rich in India, they do not care. They would not come. Why would I?
“Someone spoke to her,” the driver said about me. “Told her to come to you because you are loved.”
She bobbled her head side to side in assent, but her eyes still revealed disbelief.
In that moment, I knew it was worth it. To travel forty-two hours to reach her country. To fight the heat, the traffic. To sit in the dirt, sweating, flies buzzing around us. To hold her baby, let it pee in my lap. It will be worth it to come every day and just sit with her if it helps her understand that there is no length my father will not go to help her understand his love.
I cannot speak her language, but I pray my smile and the light in my eyes would speak of the love of my father, and I make a mental note to learn to tell her myself of his love in her own words by the time I am gone.