She Remembered What Everyone Else Forgot

“I just got her back,” she sobbed into my shirt.

She moved in to care for her full-time. I visited often, brought food, helped where I could. Watching Amy care for her mom broke something in me — in the best way. She was graceful, patient, fierce.

One night on the balcony, she asked, “Do you think life balances itself out?”

I nodded. “You get back what you give.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I got love when I needed it most. Now I’m giving it.”

Her mother passed quietly weeks later.

At the funeral, Amy read a poem she’d written in high school — about hope, survival, and unseen hands that lift you when you’re falling. Everyone cried.

Afterward, she asked me to move in.

We rented a small apartment with creaky floors and big windows. On Sundays, she played old music while we cooked. On Thursdays, we watched crime documentaries and argued over suspects.

One day, while cleaning, she found her old sketchbook.

“You still draw?” I asked.

“Not really. I always thought I had to choose between art and survival.”

“You don’t have to choose anymore.”

A week later, I signed her up for a local art show.

She was angry. Then scared. Then grateful.

Her drawing of her mom’s hands holding a paper lunch bag won first place. A gallery offered to display her work.

Everything changed.Continue reading…