-Oliver-
Soft and nostalgic notes of a familiar song woke me from my dreamless sleep. I stirred in my bed as the volume went higher and the velvety voice of Michael Bublé singing about coming home reverberated between the walls. I turned and lay on my back, gazing at the ceiling.
Yes, I know that feeling. I knew who and why played that specific song: my Mother. It’s been her everyday ritual since five years ago, when she lost the love of her life, my father. I truly admired her strength; she didn’t shed a single tear in public, and in the privacy of our home, she comforted everyone, even though she needed it, and she cried only behind closed doors.
That’s why my father fell in love with her because even though she looked tough on the outside, on the inside, she was like a little girl wh
