Butterflies surrounded her.
I picked up a brush.
For the
first time in months, I knew exactly how I wanted to finish it.
I painted the sunlight brighter.
I added another butterfly.
Then, in the distance, I painted a woman standing beneath a tree.
Watching.
Smiling.
Remembering.
When I stepped back, tears filled my eyes.
The painting wasn’t about death.
It was about love.
The kind that doesn’t disappear.
The kind that remains even when life changes beyond recognition.
I set down the brush and looked at Sophie’s photograph.
“I’ll always be your mommy,” I whispered.
“And I’m going to keep living, sweetheart.”
Outside, the city continued moving.
Somewhere, children were laughing.
Parents were hurrying home.
Families were preparing dinner.
Ordinary moments were happening everywhere.
Moments I once believed would last forever.
I had learned the hardest lesson of my life.
Love isn’t measured by how much money someone earns.
