She had left the house at twenty, once she finally had enough financial stability to get out. It pained her deeply to leave her mother alone with that drunk, but she had promised to visit as often as she could—maybe even take her mother away from there. Still, her mother had been determined to spend the rest of her life with him.

Standing in front of that house now meant one thing: her mother was gone. And so was that piece of shit who lived with her.

The moment she stepped closer to the door, her stomach turned. She clutched her abdomen to keep herself from throwing up. So many memories—so many bad memories—flooded her mind.

Why did she have to be there?

Beside her, the lawyer waited for her to officially recognize the property and sign the papers that would allow the State to take it over. She wanted nothing from that house. She wanted nothing to do with it.

With a trembling hand, she turned the knob and stepped in. The house had been cleaned, apparently. The walls were freshly painted. Her mother had never mentioned any of this. Everything looked new.

But when she reached the kitchen, she noticed one wall hadn’t been painted.

On that wall were the drawings she had made as a child. Even the growth marks—each one her mother had made as she grew an inch or two.

Why had her mother left those there, untouched?

Why, if she had remodeled the rest of the house?

Her heart clenched. Her mother… she hadn’t wanted to leave her. But that place had become unbearable. And deep down, she held resentment—resentment for the choice her mother had made to stay with that man.

She placed a hand on her chest. She felt a slight pain there.

The lawyer asked if she was okay. She nodded.

She simply sat down—right where her mother always used to sit.

And even though the couch no longer smelled the same, she could still feel her mother’s scent in the fabric.

Then came the small lights—tiny flashes of memory. Good ones.

Memories that were deep within her mind. Memories that maybe come from somewhere in the unconscious.

Moments long buried beneath years of fear and anger, since the day that man came into their lives.

Her mouth began to tremble. She tried not to cry. Her hands and shoulders began to shake. The lawyer went to the kitchen to bring her a glass of water. He didn’t know what was happening, but he stayed near, she was silently grateful for that.

She drank the water, let it cool her throat, and breathed.

It was true: now the house had more light.

It looked more alive.

More full of love.

That man had died before her mother did. She hated him.

But at least… he was the one who went first.

Her mother hadn’t lived much longer after that.

She took a deep breath and kept walking through the house.

Everything felt different. It felt full of flowers.

Flowers that weren’t really there—but that reminded her of her childhood.

In that moment, she decided to bury the image of that man.

And to let the good memories of her mother bloom again:

how she watched her grow, how she cared for her, how she gave her life.

All of it came crashing in at once. And she was grateful.

Grateful because, in the end, despite everything…

she had a mother who truly cared for her.