When I was 19, I lost my mom—my best friend, my anchor, my safe place. Grief nearly broke me, but I clung to the small things that kept her memory alive: her photos, her handmade quilts, the warmth she’d left behind.
My dad coped differently. Within a year, he remarried. His new wife, Carol, was ice-cold from day one. She called my mother “the ghost” and quietly erased her from our home—donating quilts, hiding photos, silencing her memory. Every time I fought back, she smirked, as if winning some invisible war.
Years later, at my wedding, I placed my mom’s photo on the table where she belonged. Carol spotted it, her lips curling. Then, with deliberate force, she knocked it to the ground, the glass shattering loud enough for everyone to hear. She stood there smiling, certain she’d ruined me on my happiest day.
But fate had other plans. Just moments later, the double doors opened—and in walked my mom’s sister, carrying another framed photo of her. She placed it gently back on the table, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “She’s here with you today.”
The room erupted in applause. Carol’s smugness evaporated. And in that instant, I knew: my mother’s light would always outshine Carol’s shadows.
