A full year had passed, yet the memory of their mother still felt warm in the hearts of twelve-year-old Lina and her younger brother, seven-year-old Raden. Time had softened the sharpness of their sadness, but the love they carried for her remained bright—like a soft lamp glowing through the nights.
Every morning, the sun filtered into the small wooden house their mother once kept spotless. Now, Grandma Sori lived with them, doing her best to fill the space with love. She couldn’t replace their mother, and she never tried to. Instead, she honored her daughter by caring for the children in the gentlest way she knew.
On that morning—the day marking one year since their mother’s passing—Lina woke before the roosters crowed. She sat up in bed, hugging the pillow that still smelled faintly of jasmine from the sachet her mother had sewn. She whispered, “Mom, I hope you’re proud of us.”
Raden, in the bed across the room, stirred and rubbed his eyes. “Lina… it’s today, right?”
She nodded. “Yeah. But we’re okay, aren’t we?”
He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he walked to her bed and rested his head on her shoulder. “I miss her,” he said quietly.
“I do too,” Lina replied. “But we’re doing our best. That’s what she’d want.”
Lina had changed the most over the year. Once playful and carefree, she had grown responsible and calm, like a young tree learning to stand strong in the wind. She helped Grandma with cooking, studied hard, and always made sure Raden felt safe. Teachers at school praised her kindness; neighbors admired her steadiness. But inside, she often wished she could go back to being a child again—a child who didn’t have to pretend to be so mature. Still, she tried, because the thought of making her mother proud gave her strength.
Raden, on the other hand, had changed in a different way. He had grown brighter, more talkative, more energetic. In the beginning, he had cried often. Everything reminded him of their mother—her songs, her warm hands, even the sound of chopping vegetables. But over time, he learned to smile again. His teachers said he was friendly, curious, and full of imagination. And though he still missed his mother deeply, he carried her memory like a soft blanket that comforted him.
As the children washed up and came to the kitchen, they found Grandma carefully arranging fresh flowers in a bowl—a small ritual she always did on special days.
“Good morning, my darlings,” she said warmly. “Today we’ll visit your mother’s favorite tree. But first, breakfast.”
The three of them ate together—steamed rice, eggs, and sliced mango. The simple meal felt special today. After breakfast, Lina tidied the table while Raden fed their chickens and gave names to every single one—even though he kept forgetting which was which.
By midmorning, the sun was bright but soft, and the breeze carried the scent of flowering bushes. Together they walked down the familiar dirt path to the tall shade tree at the edge of the field. It was the tree their mother used to sit under while telling stories, the tree where she had taught them to weave grass into rings and crowns.
“We brought your favorite flowers,” Lina whispered as she placed the jasmine on the ground. Raden set down a small drawing he had made that morning—him, Lina, and their mother smiling together.
Grandma stood behind them silently, her eyes full but calm. She knew grief had many forms, and healing was different for every person. For the children, returning to this place was like returning to a warm memory.
After a while, Raden broke the quiet.
“Lina,” he said, “do you think Mom can see us?”
Lina smiled softly. “I think she feels us. Every time we’re kind, every time we laugh, every time we help each other—I think that reaches her.”
Grandma nodded. “Love never disappears, children. It only changes form.”
They stayed under the tree for a long time, telling stories about their mother—not the sad ones, but the funny, warm, happy ones. Like the time she burned three batches of cookies in one afternoon. Or when she got her hair tangled in a bamboo wind chime and laughed harder than anyone else.
As they shared memories, something special happened: the air that once felt heavy became light again. They weren’t trying to forget; they were learning how to carry their love forward.
How are the children now?
The answer unfolded throughout their day.
Lina was strong, but she wasn’t pretending to be an adult anymore. She allowed herself to laugh, to make mistakes, to play with her friends after school. Her heart had learned that being responsible didn’t mean giving up her childhood. She had become a quiet leader—thoughtful, steady, and caring. Teachers said she had a bright future, and neighbors said her mother’s spirit lived in her gentleness.
Raden was joyful. He talked to birds, built little forts out of sticks, and collected rocks he insisted were “super rare treasures.” He drew pictures, asked endless questions, and made everyone around him smile. Sometimes he still cried, especially at night when memories felt closer—but Grandma and Lina were always there to hold him until he felt safe.
Together, they were healing.
They weren’t the same as before—how could they be? But they were learning to live with love, not loneliness. Each day, they took small steps forward, and each step brought them closer to the life their mother wished for them: one filled with kindness, hope, and connection.
That evening, back at home, Grandma cooked a special dinner. Lina lit a small candle and placed it on the wooden shelf where their mother’s photo stood. Raden added a little flower he picked from the field.
As the flame flickered warmly, Lina whispered, “Mom, we’re okay. We miss you… but we’re okay.”
Raden leaned against her side. “And we’ll keep doing our best.”
Grandma wrapped her arms around both children. “She would be so proud of you.”
Outside, the stars appeared—quiet guardians watching over them. The house, once filled with sadness, now glowed with warmth again.
A whole year had passed.
And the children?
They were healing, growing, and living with love—just as their mother would have wanted. 😊❤️
