She always feels those eyes staring at her. Ever since she was born, one leg shorter than the other. Polio. The way she walks with a limp, she decided that she would never get married. No one would love her, she thought, so she became self-sufficient. Well, as much as a woman could be fifty years ago in Myanmar.
It was worth moving to another country for, avoiding those eyes, she thought. So all those people would stop staring. But those eyes never left her. Furthermore, those eyes weren't only looking at her uneven footsteps, but they were looking at her face, her family, her friends, her house, her cars, her children, always weighing judgment, no matter where she was.
Her fears manifest everywhere she goes. That's why she shuts herself in, avoiding everything and everyone. She doesn't want those eyes to look at her. She doesn't to give them a chance to laugh at her, to point at her. So she throws herself into what she could control, her knitting, her cooking, her Buddhist prayers.
But now her son is getting married, and her future daughter-in-law wants her to walk down the aisle. But she doesn't know of her leaden shame. The eyes that will watch her limp. The eyes that will follow her down that path of condemnation.