Rain blurred my view of the house—the one where I tucked Hazel in, danced with her, and felt her small arms around me. But now, I was a stranger, having left three years ago when cancer took my strength. Nathan assured me it was temporary, but as my treatments drained me, the visits grew fewer.
Eventually, Hazel stopped writing, and the silence grew. Then, I received legal papers—divorce, custody, and full guardianship granted to Nathan. Too weak to fight, I signed the papers, promising myself I’d get her back someday.
I returned, only to be met by Sara, Nathan’s new wife. She told me Hazel wasn’t home, but I knew she was lying. I rushed to the fair to find her, only for Hazel to stare at me, confused. She whispered, “You’re not my mom. You’re just a bald lady.”
Heartbroken, I spent the night recalling our memories, desperate for her to remember. Then I saw her art submission—a picture of stars, our bedtime story. Hope sparked.
At the school art contest, I revealed old videos and letters to the audience, including Hazel. When she asked why Sara hid the letters, it was the moment Hazel turned to me. Running into my arms, she whispered, “Mom…”
Hazel had remembered. Nathan realized she needed me, and Hazel chose to go home with me, ending the years of distance. A mother’s love, like the stars, is always there, even when unseen.
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