Morning light rose quietly, though my heart still carried the echoes of last night’s words.
Sleep had been thin, and Mum’s voice sharper than usual — about my habits, my phone, my care.
Still, I woke, bathed, and packed what I could
because beneath the tension, there was still a promise to visit Dad.
On the bus, the world rolled by in its own rhythm — 21, then 53 —
each stop a small reminder of distance and effort.
At the nursing home, Dad spoke softly:
“There are no forever friends or enemies not everyone will like you.”
His words sank deep — a strange comfort wrapped in truth.
Mum shared about her job, her swollen feet, her fears.
The air felt heavy
not only with illness, but with the weight of what we couldn’t change.
Uncle George and Aunt’s shadows lingered in her tone.
And still, we tried to eat lunch together
duck rice and soya bean under the noon light.
There was a fight nearby, voices rising.
People laughed when I stumbled.
But I just smiled quietly and tried again.
Because life is a string of small recoveries
and sometimes, grace is just not walking away.
Later, as the server glitched and Mum talked of reviews and hospitals,
a message arrived — my book In the Light of Love had won third place.
A light flickered inside me
gentle, steady, enough.
Dad saw it. He didn’t say much, but he looked at me
and I knew he understood.
Even when kindness feels uneven,
and words fall like stones instead of petals
love still finds its way back,
in quiet visits, warm duck rice, and the small courage
to keep showing up.
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