Chapter 58: Carried In Memory

Wings That Remain

Some hearts leave before we’re ready, yet they never truly go.

November 23 — a day marked in memory, in heartbeats, in the soft flutter of remembrance.
Butterfly — my mother, my mirror, my shadow. We never got along the way I sometimes wished we would. Perhaps I am too much like her, or perhaps life decided our paths would run parallel instead of entwined.

You left when I was thirteen, in the middle of exams, leaving me with Luna and Amber. Life continued without you in the ways only children notice — the absence, the questions, the empty spaces no one can fill.

Still, I see you in flashes — your strength, your smile, the way you carried yourself despite the weight of your past. I fantasize now, at this age, of bringing you out for high tea, treating you to the best, showing you the life you deserve.

You were not perfect. None of us are. But even from afar, I’ve come to admire your resilience, your laughter, your quiet light that persists through everything.

Sometimes, I wish you were here with me — to share in my pain, to guide me as only a mother could. A father cannot do the same. And yet, even with your absence, you’ve given me wings.

Today, I honor you. Not with grief, but with gratitude.
For the softness you taught me, for the quiet strength you carried, for the memories that rise like light when I need it most.

Butterfly, I carry you still — your lessons, your laughter, your strength — and I hope you know that wherever you are, you are seen, remembered, and loved.

Happiest Birthday to you, mum. I miss you dearly.🎔

A quiet tribute.