Every afternoon, when the school bell rang, Eunice and her friends would walk toward the school gates on their way home.
The road leading to the large villa on the edge of town was familiar in every twist and pothole, yet each day something would capture their attention.
At the corner where the school met the small park, there was always a woman. Her clothes were tattered and filthy, her hair hung in disarray, and her face seemed to merge with the dust and dullness around her.
Still, when you looked into her eyes, there was a strange depth, a human sorrow, even if her appearance seemed mad.
— Eunice… my child… it’s me, your mother — she whispered whenever the little girl drew near.
Eunice’s friends laughed, shrugged, and moved on as if nothing had happened. But Eunice’s heart raced every time she heard the woman speak.
Sometimes she smiled, other times her gaze carried a grief no child would wish to ignore.
Eunice was ten, and she had everything a child could desire. Her parents were wealthy, her father a successful businessman, her mother a renowned art curator.
In the grand villa on the town’s edge, every room was filled with toys, books, and luxurious furniture. Eunice had her own room, the finest clothes, and the best school one could imagine.
Yet having everything did not mean she faced the world without fear.
When she first asked her parents if she could walk home alone, “like the other children,” things began to change. The corner where the woman stood suddenly became the center of her world.
The woman was there every day. Repeating the same words: — Eunice… my child…
One rainy afternoon, when Eunice walked home alone, the woman stepped closer. Her voice trembled, but every word carried the weight of truth: — Don’t be afraid, Eunice. I can prove it. I am your real mother.
Eunice froze for a moment, then shouted in anger: — Stop! You’re crazy! I already have a mother and father! If you speak to me again, I’ll tell my mom and she’ll call the police!
The woman’s eyes filled with tears as if she felt all the world’s pain. — I’m sorry… I never meant to scare you…
Eunice ran, her clothes soaked, her shoes slipping in the mud. She heard the woman whisper in the rain: — You’ve become just like her…
The next day, the corner was empty. For the first time in months, no one stood there. Eunice’s friends were glad, laughing that perhaps the woman had gone, or the police had taken care of her.
But Eunice felt no relief. Something ached inside her, something she could not name — perhaps guilt, perhaps sorrow. She had always vowed to be kind to everyone, and now she felt guilty because of someone else.
That night she could not sleep. In her dreams, she heard the whisper through the rain again: — Eunice… my child…
A few days later, while cleaning the living room, Eunice noticed something unusual behind the large, gilded family portrait: a brown envelope taped to the back. Her name was written on it: “Baby Eunice.”
Curious, she opened it. Inside was an old letter, written in trembling handwriting:
“Dearest Eunice, If you are reading this, please believe me — I never abandoned you. You were taken from me when you were one year old.
They said I was unfit to raise you. You were told I had died. But I never left you alone for a moment. I have always been close — every day. I love you more than my life. — Mother”
Eunice felt the world shift in that moment. Just then, her mother entered the room. — What are you holding? — she asked sharply.
Eunice tried to hide the letter, but her panic was obvious. Her mother grabbed the envelope, read the first line, and turned pale. Silently, she tore the letter into tiny pieces.
— Why did you do that?! — Eunice shouted.
Her mother’s voice shook. — There are things you must never know, Eunice. Not now. Never.
The next day, she went to school quietly. The woman’s voice echoed in her mind: “I can prove it… I am your real mother.”
When school ended, Eunice stepped outside, stunned. At the corner, police lights flashed and a crowd had gathered. A passerby whispered: — A homeless woman was killed here this morning. Hit by a car. Poor thing…
Eunice’s heart stopped. She pressed through the crowd. The officer raised his hand: — Stay back, miss.
Her voice trembled. — Please… may I see? She always stood here… spoke to a girl after school?
The officer frowned. — Yes. She had been here for months. They said she was mad. But look what we found in her hand.
He lifted a small silver locket, tarnished by dirt. Inside was a faded photograph of a baby with a chubby face and bright eyes. Underneath was a name: EUNICE.
The ground seemed to vanish beneath her. Eunice collapsed in tears.
That night passed in strange silence. Her parents avoided her gaze. From her room, she could hear them arguing across the house: — I told you, it’s over!
— How was I supposed to know she would come back?! — She has no right to the child, Helen! — She’s the real mother, and you cannot erase that!
Eunice put her hands over her mouth to stifle her sobs. Everything she had known, every certainty, shattered like glass around her.
Late at night, she slipped into the garden. The wind was cold, the moon hidden behind clouds.
She held the silver locket. Opening it, she touched the small face and whispered: — I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was you.
A soft breeze brushed her hair, and for a brief moment, she thought she heard the voice, faint but clear in the wind: — I forgive you, my child. I have always loved you.
Years passed. Eunice grew into a quiet, thoughtful young woman. Her family remained wealthy, her life seemed perfect again, but she carried the weight of secrets. Behind every portrait lay untold truths that could not be spoken.
Sometimes she returned to the corner near the school, now cracked and overgrown with weeds. She left a small bouquet of lilies and a folded note:
— I still remember you, Mother. They called you mad, but you were the only one brave enough to tell the truth.
One evening, as she placed the flowers, a little girl approached: — Miss, are you the one who leaves flowers here every week? — Yes, dear.
Why do you ask? — Because someone came yesterday. She was crying and said… thank you for forgiving her.
Eunice shivered. — What did she look like? — She wasn’t poor like the others. Wore a gray coat, had long hair… and arrived in a big car.
The child ran off before Eunice could ask more.
Eunice looked down the long, winding road to the opposite side of the corner, where distant headlights disappeared into the fog.
A strange feeling coursed through her — fear and hope entwined. Perhaps the past was not as buried as she thought.
The air carried a deep scent — jasmine — the same fragrance that had always lingered around the woman, when she cried but smiled.
Eunice closed her eyes, holding the locket tightly in her hand. And in the wind, she heard once more, faint but unmistakable: — My child… I never abandoned you.
