I froze. My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages. It wasn’t just one book. The box contained three different titles, each bearing her name. She had written them. Published them. And I hadn’t known.
Suddenly, the silence of the past weeks made sense. She hadn’t been sulking — she had been waiting. Waiting for me to discover what she had accomplished while I dismissed her as “just a mom.”
I sat down heavily, shame pressing into my chest. Memories came flooding back: the nights she stayed up late, typing while I slept; afternoons when she shooed me out, claiming she needed quiet. I thought she was wasting time on social media or journaling. But she was building worlds, crafting stories, pouring herself into something bigger.
