He thought of his wife — her laughter, her warmth, and that phrase she liked to say: « One day, you’ll see her fly away all by herself. And you’ll understand that you did the right thing. »
He hadn’t believed it at the time. But now, looking at Lily through the window, he did.
When he turned the key, a ray of sunshine pierced the clouds and flooded the dashboard. He smiled faintly. « I can see it now, » he whispered.
That evening, when he came back to get Lily, she threw herself into his arms, offering him a crumpled sheet of paper.
« Dad! Look! I drew our family! »
He looked down at the drawing — three little men holding hands under a large yellow sun.
There was him. There was Lily. And, beside them, a woman with a broad smile and wings of a soft color.
« She’s always with us, » Lily said simply.
Ethan’s eyes burned as he held her tightly. « Yes, » he said. « She always will be. »
And from that day on, each morning was a little less burdensome, each goodbye a little easier.
Because sometimes, healing doesn’t come from grand gestures.
It comes from pink lunchboxes, small, courageous smiles, and the quiet strength to begin again.
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