George sat alone in the corner of the garden, holding a worn notebook in his lap. The wind rustled through the trees, gently brushing his dark curls as he stared at the empty page before him. This garden had once been his mother's favorite place—the same place where she used to read him stories and whisper dreams into the air. Now, it had become his sacred space for remembering her and processing everything he had become.
Mariana, knowing his routine, had left him undisturbed that afternoon. She knew what the notebook meant—what the blank page stood for. George had started it months ago, writing letters he would never send. Letters to Mary. To his real mother.
Today, he needed to write something he hadn't dared to until now.
"Dear Mom, I finally understand why you did everything. Why you loved in silence, fought without armor, and gave even when you were broken."
Tears splattered on the page as he wrote, his small fingers shaky yet determined.
"I met someone… someone who reminds me of you. She's strong, kind, and she sees me even when I hide behind my smiles. I think you know her. I think… you're still watching me through her eyes."
Mariana stood behind the window, unable to hear the words, but feeling their weight in her soul. Her heart ached, but also swelled with pride. George was growing—not just in strength or intellect, but in heart.
He closed the notebook gently and placed it beside a small stone statue of an angel. "Thanks, Mom," he whispered. "For everything. I'm gonna make you proud."
And with that, he stood, ready for what came next.