She looked at the moon. It was shining light onto the balcony. The moon looks so pretty from here, how can it be so grey and ugly, she wondered aloud. The little one came to sit by her, his little feet hardly touching the floor. He asked her where his mother was – in the sky somewhere? That’s where heaven is, right? Or was she on the moon, floating around with her new friends? She looked at him and wondered what to say. She wish she knew the answer. Thankfully, the maid came out with the little boy’s milk and cookies, making a change in the topic of conversation.
He loved her. She was his mother. She may not have been there for him. She may not have been a part of his childhood or young adulthood – he still loved her. He had watched her play with his little brother and sister. He had watched them sharing laughs and phrases that seemed to be a secret kept from him. At least he had been sent to live with a relative so he didn’t have to see or hear too much. When she died, his brother didn’t shed a tear. He promptly focused on her will. The man who had lost the mother he had never had, bawled like a baby.