“IF NOAH EVER FINDS THIS…”
My mother’s voice filled the room.
Then the recording stopped.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Grandma Margaret held the tiny recorder in her trembling hands.
Daddy stood beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
Our Golden Retriever, Buddy, sat at my feet with my little stuffed bear in his mouth.
And Rebecca, my stepmother, stood near the veranda door.
Her face had gone completely pale.
My name is Noah.
I was seven years old.
And that evening, I had watched my stepmother throw away the most precious things I owned.
My mother had died when I was little.
But before she passed away, she gave me a wooden memory box.
Inside were photographs, ribbons, little notes, and a small stuffed bear.
Whenever I missed her, I opened the box.
Sometimes I cried.
Sometimes I smiled.
But I always felt as though Mommy was sitting beside me again.
Rebecca hated that box.
And now Grandma had discovered something hidden beneath its lining.
A tiny voice recorder.
With my mother’s voice on it.
***
“Why did it stop?” I whispered.
Grandma examined the recorder.
“Maybe the battery is weak, sweetheart.”
Daddy crouched beside me.
“We’ll find a way to listen to the rest.”
I looked up at him.
“Was that really Mommy?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, buddy.”
I stared at the recorder.
I had almost forgotten the exact sound of her voice.
But the moment I heard it, I knew.
It was Mommy.
The same gentle voice that used to sing to me before bed.
The same voice that told me stories when I was sick.
The same voice that always said my name as though it was the most wonderful word in the world.
***
Rebecca suddenly stepped forward.
“That thing is probably broken.”
Grandma looked at her.
“Then we’ll repair it.”
Rebecca folded her arms.
“Why are you making such a fuss over an old recording?”
Daddy turned toward her.
“Because it’s a recording of Noah’s mother.”
Rebecca looked away.
“He’s been crying over her for years.”
Grandma’s expression hardened.
“And he has every right to miss her.”
Rebecca opened her mouth.
But Grandma continued.
“Your discomfort does not erase my daughter’s life.”
***
I pressed my face against Daddy’s shirt.
I didn’t understand everything the adults were saying.
But I understood one thing.
Grandma wasn’t angry with me.
Daddy wasn’t angry with me.
And Mommy hadn’t done anything wrong by leaving me her things.
***
Before that evening, I had spent a long time wondering whether missing Mommy was somehow bad.
Rebecca often told me I needed to move on.
She said the photographs made the house sad.
She said Daddy needed to be happy again.
And she said I should stop talking about someone who wasn’t coming back.
I tried.
I really tried.
But every night, when I closed my eyes, I remembered Mommy brushing my hair away from my forehead.
I remembered the way she smelled like lavender soap.
And I remembered her kissing my nose.
How could I stop remembering someone I loved so much?
***
When I was four, Mommy became very sick.
At first, I thought she had a cold.
She spent more time resting.
Daddy took her to appointments.
Grandma visited often.
And everyone spoke quietly when they thought I wasn’t listening.
I didn’t understand why Mommy was always tired.
One afternoon, I climbed onto her bed.
“Are you going to get better?”
She held me close.
“I hope so, my little star.”
I put my hand against her cheek.
“Because I need you.”
She kissed my forehead.
“I know, sweetheart.”
***
A few weeks later, she gave me the wooden box.
It was small enough for me to carry.
There was a painted blue star on the lid.
And inside, she had placed photographs and little things that belonged to us.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
Mommy smiled.
“For all the memories we want to keep safe.”
I opened it.
There was a photograph of us at the beach.
A ribbon from my first school performance.
A tiny birthday card.
And my stuffed bear.
I hugged the bear.
“He’s coming with me everywhere.”
Mommy laughed softly.
“Then you’d better take good care of him.”
***
She also placed a folded note inside.
I couldn’t read all the words back then.
But she read them to me.
“To my Noah. You are loved more than all the stars in the sky.”
I asked her why she was writing it down.
She hugged me.
“So you can read it whenever you want.”
I didn’t know that one day I would need those words more than anything.
***
Mommy died a few months later.
I remember the house being full of people.
Grandma crying in the kitchen.
Daddy sitting on the edge of his bed.
And everyone telling me Mommy had gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.
For weeks, I kept asking when she was coming home.
Daddy tried to explain.
Grandma held me when I cried.
But I was too little to understand how someone could be there one day and gone the next.
***
After Mommy died, I slept with the stuffed bear every night.
I kept the memory box beside my bed.
Sometimes Daddy opened it with me.
We looked at photographs.
He told me stories about Mommy.
How she laughed.
How she danced while cooking.
How she loved rainy afternoons.
And how she had cried with happiness when I was born.
Those were my favorite nights.
***
Two years later, Daddy married Rebecca.
At first, she seemed nice.
She bought me a toy car.
She helped me choose a birthday cake.
And she told Daddy that she wanted us to be a family.
I tried to like her.
I wanted Daddy to be happy.
I didn’t want him to be lonely.
But after the wedding, things began to change.
***
One morning, I came downstairs and noticed Mommy’s photograph was missing from the living room.
It used to stand beside the bookshelf.
I asked Rebecca where it had gone.
She smiled.
“I put it away.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re making room for new memories.”
I didn’t understand.
“Can we have both?”
Her smile disappeared.
“Don’t be difficult, Noah.”
***
Soon, other photographs disappeared.
The picture of Mommy holding me as a baby.
The one of Daddy and Mommy on their wedding day.
Even the little frame that Grandma had given us.
I asked Daddy about them.
He said Rebecca had been rearranging the house.
Then he promised we would find a place for them.
But the photographs never returned.
***
I began taking my memory box downstairs whenever Grandma visited.
She loved looking at the pictures.
Sometimes she told me stories about Mommy when she was a little girl.
“Your mother used to climb the apple tree behind our house,” she said once.
I giggled.
“Did she fall?”
Grandma smiled.
“More than once.”
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Those stories made Mommy feel real.
Not like someone disappearing from the world.
But like someone whose love was still all around me.
***
Rebecca didn’t like those afternoons.
Whenever Grandma mentioned Mommy, Rebecca changed the subject.
Sometimes she left the room.
Other times she told me I was too old to keep crying.
I was only seven.
I didn’t know how old someone had to be before they were supposed to stop missing their mother.
***
Then came the rainy evening.
Grandma Margaret was visiting for dinner.
Daddy was in his study finishing some work.
Rebecca was setting the table.
I had brought my memory box downstairs because Grandma wanted to see an old photograph of Mommy.
It was a picture taken at the beach.
Mommy was kneeling beside me.
We were both covered in sand.
And she was laughing because I had tried to build a castle taller than myself.
I wanted Grandma to tell me that story again.
***
I sat on a little stool near the veranda.
The rain was falling over the garden.
I opened the box.
Then Rebecca walked in.
She saw it immediately.
“Put that away.”
I looked up.
“Grandma wants to see a picture.”
Rebecca stepped closer.
“I told you to put it away.”
I held the box against my chest.
“But it’s mine.”
Her expression changed.
“Your mother is never coming back!”
I froze.
I knew Mommy wasn’t coming back.
Daddy had explained that to me.
Grandma had explained it too.
But hearing Rebecca shout it felt like someone had punched a hole in my heart.
***
“Please don’t say that,” I whispered.
Rebecca reached for the box.
I tried to hold on.
But she pulled it from my hands.
“You’re going to stop living in the past.”
She opened the lid.
Photographs scattered across the veranda floor.
The ribbons fell beside the stool.
My birthday card landed near the doorway.
And my stuffed bear tumbled onto the bench beside the garden.
“Please!” I cried.
“That’s Mommy’s!”
Rebecca picked up the beach photograph.
For one moment, I thought she might give it back.
Instead, she tore it in half.
***
I screamed.
“NO!”
The sound came out before I could stop it.
I dropped to my knees.
The two pieces of the photograph lay on the floor.
Mommy was on one half.
I was on the other.
I tried to push them together.
But my hands were shaking.
Rebecca moved the little stool out of the way.
“Stop making a scene.”
I was sobbing so hard I could barely breathe.
Then she stepped inside.
And shut the veranda door.
***
The veranda was covered by a roof.
But the wind blew cold rain through the open side.
I stood beside the scattered keepsakes.
The garden was dark.
The flowers bent in the wind.
I pressed my hands against the door.
“Daddy!”
Nobody answered.
“Daddy, please help!”
I began to cry harder.
I didn’t know why Rebecca was so angry.
I hadn’t broken anything.
I hadn’t shouted at her.
I only wanted to show Grandma a photograph.
***
Then Buddy came running.
Our Golden Retriever had been sleeping near the kitchen.
He heard me crying.
He scratched at the door.
Barked.
And looked through the glass.
“Buddy!” I called.
He barked again.
Then he turned and ran down the hallway.
***
Daddy later told me what happened.
Buddy rushed into his study.
He barked at the desk.
Then ran toward the door.
Daddy looked up.
“Buddy? What’s wrong?”
The dog returned.
Barked again.
And hurried into the hallway.
Daddy followed him.
Buddy led him straight to the veranda.
***
The door opened.
“Noah!”
I ran into Daddy’s arms.
He knelt and held me tightly.
“What happened?”
I couldn’t stop crying.
“She threw Mommy’s things away!”
Daddy looked at the scattered photographs.
The ribbons.
The broken frame.
And the torn beach picture.
His face changed.
He held me closer.
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
***
Grandma Margaret appeared behind him.
She took one look at the floor.
And stopped.
“Who touched my daughter’s things?”
Rebecca came into the hallway.
She looked irritated.
“Noah needs to stop obsessing over the past.”
Daddy stood up.
He kept one arm around me.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Rebecca crossed her arms.
“I’m trying to help him.”
Grandma looked at her.
“By tearing his mother’s photograph?”
Rebecca didn’t answer.
***
Buddy ran to the bench.
He picked up my stuffed bear.
Then carried it back to me.
I hugged it against my chest.
“Thank you, Buddy.”
He wagged his tail.
And sat beside me.
***
Grandma knelt to gather the photographs.
She picked up the torn beach picture.
Smoothed the two halves.
And placed them carefully inside the box.
Then she noticed that part of the lining had come loose.
She touched the fabric.
Something small was hidden beneath it.
A tiny recorder.
Grandma lifted it out.
“James,” she said to Daddy, “did you know about this?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Grandma pressed the button.
Mommy’s voice filled the room.
“If Noah ever finds this…”
Then the recording stopped.
***
We stood in silence.
Grandma examined the recorder.
Daddy took it gently.
“The battery might be failing.”
He looked at me.
“We’ll see if we can fix it.”
I nodded.
I was afraid to hope.
But I wanted to hear Mommy again.
More than anything.
***
That night, Daddy didn’t let Rebecca come near my room.
Grandma helped me change into warm pajamas.
She made me hot chocolate.
Then she sat beside my bed.
I held my stuffed bear.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Was Mommy angry with me?”
Grandma looked shocked.
“Why would you think that?”
I stared at the blanket.
“Because Rebecca says I keep making everyone sad.”
Grandma took my hand.
“Oh, Noah.”
She leaned closer.
“Your mother loved you with her whole heart. Missing her does not make anyone’s love smaller.”
I began to cry.
Grandma hugged me.
“And you never have to apologize for remembering her.”
***
The next morning, Daddy took the recorder to a small electronics repair shop.
Grandma came with us.
I carried the memory box.
Buddy stayed home.
I didn’t want to leave the box behind.
Not anymore.
***
The technician was a kind older man named Mr. Harris.
He examined the recorder carefully.
After a few minutes, he said the battery contacts had become corroded.
He thought he could restore power without disturbing the recording.
Daddy asked him to be careful.
“It’s very important to us.”
Mr. Harris nodded.
“I understand.”
***
We waited.
I sat between Daddy and Grandma.
My legs swung above the floor.
Every few minutes, I looked toward the counter.
Finally, Mr. Harris returned.
He held the recorder.
“I think we’ve got it.”
My heart began to pound.
***
Daddy asked if we could listen somewhere quiet.
Mr. Harris let us use a small back room.
Grandma sat beside me.
Daddy pressed the button.
For a moment, there was only a soft crackling sound.
Then Mommy spoke.
***
“If Noah ever finds this, I hope someone is sitting beside him.
Because there are things I want my little boy to know.
Noah, sweetheart, if you’re listening, it means I couldn’t stay with you as long as I wanted.
And I am so sorry.
I wanted to watch you grow.
I wanted to walk you to school.
I wanted to hear about your friends.
I wanted to see you lose your first tooth.
And I wanted to be there when you needed a hug.
But there is something I need you to understand.
None of this is your fault.
Not one little bit.”
***
I started crying.
Daddy wrapped his arm around me.
Mommy continued.
“You were the happiest surprise of my life.
The day you were born, I held you in my arms and thought I had never seen anything so beautiful.
You had tiny fingers.
A serious little face.
And the loudest cry I had ever heard.
I laughed and cried at the same time.
Because I knew my life had changed forever.”
***
Grandma covered her mouth.
Tears ran down her cheeks.
Mommy’s voice continued.
“Sometimes, Noah, people may tell you that you need to stop being sad.
They may tell you to be brave.
Or to move on.
But I want you to know something.
Being brave doesn’t mean you never cry.
And moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting someone you love.
You can miss me and still be happy.
You can laugh.
You can make friends.
You can love new people.
And you can have wonderful adventures.
None of those things will make me love you any less.”
***
I pressed the stuffed bear against my face.
Mommy continued.
“There’s another thing.
Inside your memory box are little pieces of our life together.
The beach photograph.
The ribbon from your school performance.
The birthday card.
And your little bear.
Please take care of them if you want to.
But remember that even if one day a photograph gets lost, or a ribbon breaks, our memories are not gone.
Nobody can take away the love we shared.
It belongs to you.”
***
I looked at the two torn pieces of our beach photograph.
Mommy’s words made me cry harder.
But this time, I wasn’t crying only because I was sad.
I was crying because she had somehow answered the thing that hurt me most.
***
Then her voice became softer.
“And James, if you’re listening with him…”
Daddy straightened.
Mommy paused.
“I know you will try your best.
I know how much you love our boy.
But please don’t let anyone make him feel ashamed of remembering me.
He deserves to know where he came from.
He deserves to hear our stories.
And he deserves to grow up knowing that love doesn’t have to disappear when life changes.”
***
Daddy began to cry.
I had seen him sad before.
But I had never heard him cry like that.
Mommy continued.
“And Margaret, Mom, if you’re there…”
Grandma made a small sound.
“I know you’ll tell him stories about me.
Please tell him about the funny ones too.
Tell him about the time I tried to bake a cake and forgot the flour.
Tell him about the puppy I brought home without asking.
And tell him I was a little girl once, just like he is a little boy now.
I want him to know me as a person.
Not only as someone he lost.”
***
Grandma laughed through her tears.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.
***
Then Mommy spoke directly to me again.
“Noah, my little star, I have one last thing to tell you.
Whenever you feel lonely, look up at the night sky.
Find the brightest star you can see.
And remember that somewhere in this big world, there are people who love you.
Your daddy.
Your grandma.
Your friends.
And so many people you haven’t even met yet.
You are never too small to matter.
And you are never too old to need a hug.
I love you more than all the stars in the sky.
Always.
Mommy.”
***
The recording ended.
Nobody spoke.
I held the recorder in my hands.
It was warm from being held.
I looked at Daddy.
“Can we play it again?”
He nodded.
“Of course.”
We listened a second time.
And then a third.
***
When we returned home, Rebecca was waiting in the living room.
She stood up when she saw us.
“Well?”
Daddy placed the memory box on the table.
“We heard the recording.”
Rebecca looked away.
“That’s nice.”
Grandma stared at her.
“Nice?”
Rebecca sighed.
“I don’t understand why everyone is acting like this is such a big discovery.”
Daddy took a deep breath.
“Because Noah heard his mother’s voice for the first time in years.”
Rebecca folded her arms.
“And now he’ll be even more attached to the past.”
***
Daddy’s expression changed.
He spoke slowly.
“Rebecca, I need to ask you something.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“Why did you tear his mother’s photograph?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I was frustrated.”
“And why did you throw his belongings across the veranda?”
“He wouldn’t listen.”
Daddy shook his head.
“He’s seven.”
Rebecca looked away.
“He needs discipline.”
Daddy’s voice became firm.
“No. He needed kindness.”
***
I stood beside Grandma.
My stomach felt tight.
I was afraid Rebecca would start shouting again.
But Daddy continued.
“You didn’t just damage some old things. You hurt a child who was trying to remember his mother.”
Rebecca began to cry.
“I’ve spent two years trying to make this family work.”
Daddy looked at her.
“And Noah has spent those same two years trying to understand why someone who says she wants to be his family keeps asking him to forget his own mother.”
***
Rebecca wiped her eyes.
“You don’t know how hard it is living in her shadow.”
Grandma stepped forward.
“My daughter is dead, Rebecca. She isn’t competing with you.”
The room fell silent.
Grandma continued.
“Noah loving his mother doesn’t prevent him from caring about other people.”
Rebecca lowered her head.
***
Daddy asked Rebecca to stay elsewhere while he decided how to protect me and what needed to happen next.
He said he could not ignore what she had done.
Rebecca protested.
But he remained firm.
That evening, she packed a bag and left.
I watched from the stairs.
I didn’t feel happy.
I didn’t feel angry.
Mostly, I felt tired.
***
After she left, Daddy came upstairs.
He sat beside me.
“Noah, I want to tell you something.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much you were hurting.”
I stared at my stuffed bear.
“Rebecca said Mommy made the house sad.”
Daddy’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your mommy brought so much happiness into this house.”
I looked up.
“Then why did you take her pictures away?”
He swallowed.
“I should have asked more questions. I should have listened when you told me you missed seeing them.”
***
I was quiet for a moment.
Then I asked the question that had been sitting in my heart for months.
“Do you still love Mommy?”
Daddy began to cry.
“Yes, Noah.”
“Even though you married Rebecca?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
I didn’t understand how that worked.
So he explained.
“Love isn’t like a box that gets full and has no room for anyone else. We can love people in different ways. And remembering someone doesn’t mean we can’t keep living.”
I thought about that.
Then I whispered:
“Can we put Mommy’s pictures back?”
Daddy hugged me.
“Yes, buddy. We can.”
***
The next weekend, Grandma came over with a large envelope.
Inside were copies of some of Mommy’s photographs.
She had kept them safe for years.
Daddy found the original frames in a storage cupboard.
We cleaned them.
And together, we put the photographs back.
One went on the bookshelf.
Another went in the hallway.
And the beach photograph went beside my bed.
***
The torn original was carefully repaired by a photograph conservator.
The tear was still faintly visible.
But Mommy and I were together in the picture again.
I loved it even more.
Because now it reminded me of something important.
Things could be damaged.
But they could also be cared for.
***
Daddy made another decision.
He arranged for me to talk to a counselor who worked with children who had lost a parent.
At first, I was nervous.
I didn’t want to talk to a stranger.
But she had a room full of toys and colored pencils.
She let me draw pictures.
Sometimes we talked about Mommy.
Sometimes we talked about school.
And sometimes I didn’t want to talk at all.
She told me that was okay.
***
One day, I drew a picture of our family.
Daddy.
Grandma.
Buddy.
Me.
And Mommy as a bright yellow star.
The counselor asked me to tell her about it.
I pointed to the star.
“That’s Mommy.”
She smiled.
“Tell me about her.”
And for the first time, I told the story without feeling that I was doing something wrong.
***
As for Rebecca, Daddy continued to deal with the situation away from me.
There were difficult conversations.
Decisions about their marriage.
And questions about whether she could ever be trusted to treat me with kindness.
I didn’t have to solve those problems.
Daddy made that clear.
“You’re the child, Noah,” he told me. “The grown-ups are responsible for making sure you’re safe.”
Those words made me feel lighter.
***
Months passed.
The house became peaceful again.
Grandma visited every Sunday.
We baked cookies.
Played board games.
And listened to Mommy’s recording on special evenings.
Daddy copied the audio so we would have more than one safe version.
We kept the original recorder in the wooden box.
***
One afternoon, Grandma brought me a little notebook.
The cover was blue.
There was a silver star on the front.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A memory book.”
She sat beside me.
“Every time you remember something about Mommy, you can write it down. Or draw it.”
I opened the first page.
Grandma had written:
“Things Noah wants to remember.”
I smiled.
Then I drew a picture of Mommy holding my hand.
***
Over time, the notebook filled with stories.
Mommy singing in the kitchen.
Mommy helping me put on my shoes.
Mommy laughing when Buddy stole a sandwich.
Mommy sitting beside me during thunderstorms.
Some memories were small.
Some were blurry.
But Grandma helped me write them down.
And Daddy added stories I hadn’t known.
***
One night, I asked Daddy if we could sit on the veranda.
It was raining.
Just like the evening Rebecca had thrown my memory box.
Daddy hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He brought a blanket.
Buddy followed us.
We sat beneath the roof and watched the rain fall across the garden.
I held my stuffed bear.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I looked at Daddy.
“Do you think Mommy would like it here?”
He smiled.
“She loved this veranda.”
“Really?”
“Really. She used to sit right there with a cup of tea.”
I looked at the empty chair.
And smiled.
***
Daddy took the recorder from the memory box.
“Would you like to hear her?”
I nodded.
He pressed play.
Mommy’s voice filled the quiet evening.
“I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
I leaned against Daddy.
Buddy rested his head on my knee.
And for the first time in a long while, the veranda didn’t feel like the place where I had been left crying.
It felt like a place where I could remember Mommy safely.
***
Years later, I still kept the wooden box.
The blue star on the lid had faded.
The corners were scratched.
And the lining had been repaired.
Inside were the photographs.
The ribbons.
The little notes.
The stuffed bear.
And the recorder.
I no longer opened it every night.
But whenever I needed to feel close to my mother, I knew exactly where it was.
***
I also kept the photograph Rebecca had torn.
Grandma had placed it in a protective sleeve.
Mommy was smiling.
I was covered in sand.
And the faint line where the photograph had been repaired ran between us.
I never tried to hide that line.
It was part of the picture’s history.
Just as grief was part of mine.
***
I learned that missing someone doesn’t mean you cannot be happy.
I learned that a new person entering your family doesn’t erase the people who were there before.
And I learned that children deserve to have their memories treated with respect.
***
MY STEPMOTHER THREW MY DEAD MOTHER’S MEMORY BOX ACROSS THE VERANDA.
SHE TORE MOMMY’S PHOTOGRAPH IN HALF.
SHE TOLD ME MY MOTHER WAS NEVER COMING BACK.
AND THEN SHE SHUT THE DOOR WHILE I CRIED.
BUT OUR DOG, BUDDY, RAN TO FIND MY FATHER.
GRANDMA GATHERED THE BROKEN KEEPSAKES.
AND HIDDEN BENEATH THE BOX’S LINING, SHE FOUND A RECORDING OF MY MOTHER’S VOICE.
***
Rebecca thought she could make me forget Mommy by removing her photographs.
She thought she could silence my memories by destroying the things I loved.
And she thought she could make me stop grieving by telling me to move on.
But she was wrong.
***
Because a mother’s love doesn’t disappear when her photograph is torn.
It doesn’t vanish when her belongings are scattered.
And it doesn’t become less real because someone else wants to forget.
***
I WAS ONLY SEVEN YEARS OLD.
I COULDN’T PROTECT MY MOTHER’S MEMORY BOX FROM BEING BROKEN.
BUT I DIDN’T HAVE TO PROTECT IT ALONE.
BUDDY FOUND MY DAD.
GRANDMA FOUND MOMMY’S MESSAGE.
AND DADDY FINALLY UNDERSTOOD HOW MUCH I NEEDED TO REMEMBER HER.
***
Today, when I think about that rainy evening, I don’t remember only the pain.
I remember Buddy carrying my bear.
Grandma kneeling beside the broken photographs.
Daddy opening the door.
And Mommy’s voice saying the words I needed to hear.
***
“YOU ARE LOVED MORE THAN ALL THE STARS IN THE SKY.”
***
SOME PEOPLE THINK MOVING FORWARD MEANS LEAVING EVERY MEMORY BEHIND.
BUT SOMETIMES, MOVING FORWARD MEANS CARRYING THE LOVE WITH YOU.
AND NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS PASS, NO ONE CAN TAKE AWAY THE PLACE MY MOTHER WILL ALWAYS HAVE IN MY HEART.
