After my mother’s passing, I thought I had closed the book on her story—and mine. She had been my only anchor in a life defined by absence. My father left before I was born, and she never spoke of him. When she died, I thought I was truly alone.
The apartment we’d shared suddenly felt like a hollow museum of our memories. I walked through its empty rooms, brushing my fingers over furniture that still carried her warmth, yet felt unbearably cold without her laughter echoing through the walls.