The day had arrived—quietly, without permission.
There was no dramatic thunder in the sky, no rainfall to drown out goodbyes, no music humming in the background like in the movies. Only silence. And a soft golden morning spilling gently through the sheer white curtains of Ania Malik's living room. The sunlight draped the room in warmth, yet somehow, it felt cold against her skin. Her body knew what her heart hadn't yet said aloud—today marked an ending.
Two suitcases stood near the front door. One, navy blue with reinforced corners, belonged to Minhoo—her firstborn, the quiet thinker, the boy who had grown into a man almost too quickly. He carried his responsibilities with stoic grace, mirroring a father he never truly remembered. The other, lilac with a dangling butterfly tag, was Hana's. It was bright and soft, just like her—the girl who still doodled her feelings in the margins of her notebooks and cried during movies, always curling beside her mother like a warm secret.
The apartment, once brimming with youthful chaos and the scent of instant noodles and shampoo, now felt like a museum of moments. Everything was tidy. Too tidy. The hallway echoed more than usual, as if it had already begun mourning the lives that once passed through it.
Ania stood quietly by the threshold. She was dressed in a black cotton dress and a cream shawl that clung gently to her shoulders, the fabric whispering with each movement. Her arms were folded across her chest—not from the morning chill, but as a makeshift armor. She wouldn't cry. Not today. She had promised herself.
She had held them through fevers and heartbreaks, tucked them in on stormy nights, and whispered stories to lull their fears. And now, she would let them go.
Minhoo approached first. No longer the lanky boy who clung to her sari in crowded places—he stood tall now, poised and calm. Yet, beneath his solemn gaze, Ania saw the faint tremble in his fingers as he held out a small, folded note.
"Read it after we leave," he said, voice low but firm.
She didn't open it. She simply looked at him for a second longer—memorizing the slope of his jaw, the crease near his brow that always appeared when he was nervous. Then she reached forward, cupping his face, before pulling him into a silent embrace.
"You've always been my strength," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
His hug was tight, fleeting, and then he stepped back—masking his own sorrow behind a soft nod.
Then came Hana. Teary-eyed, breath hitched, she stumbled forward into Ania's arms, clutching her as if letting go would mean forgetting.
"I don't want to leave you alone, Eomma…" she sobbed into her chest.
Ania knelt down to her level, brushing a lock of hair behind her daughter's ear, wiping the tears that streamed down her cheeks with steady fingers.
"My heart goes with you both," she murmured, pressing a long kiss to Hana's forehead. "Wherever you go, you carry pieces of me. I'm never truly alone."
It was a lie. A gentle one. The kind mothers tell to make goodbyes easier.
The driver had arrived minutes ago and waited quietly outside, the engine purring like a lullaby. The vehicle—large, black, and far too formal—stood like a line between past and future.
Ania helped them load their bags into the trunk, her hands lingering longer than necessary on the zipper of Minhoo's duffel, on the pink handle of Hana's suitcase. She wasn't ready. But readiness wasn't a requirement for letting go—only courage.
She watched as they climbed into the car. Minhoo took the left seat, as always. Hana fumbled with her seatbelt, her face turned toward the window. They looked so grown sitting there. So far away already.
Hana waved. Her fingers trembled.
Minhoo didn't wave—but his eyes held everything he couldn't say aloud.
And then the doors shut with a quiet finality.
As the car pulled away, Ania remained rooted at the door, her hand resting on the wooden frame, knuckles white. Her shawl fluttered in the wind like a farewell flag. She didn't move. Not until the black car had turned the corner and vanished from view.
Even then, she lingered.
The silence outside stretched into her bones. The street was still. The wind rustled through the trees, brushing against her cheek like a ghost of her children's laughter. The same laughter that once echoed through this apartment, that once filled her nights with joy and exhaustion in equal measure.
Eventually, she stepped back inside.
The house—once bursting with schoolbags and scattered shoes and half-finished art projects—was too clean. Too prepared. It wasn't a home anymore. It was a pause.
Two mugs of tea sat untouched on the coffee table. She had made them out of habit that morning, only to forget about them completely.
She wandered through the rooms. Minhoo's desk was cleared, the books neatly stacked. Hana's room smelled faintly of lavender shampoo. A stuffed bunny still sat on the corner of her pillow—an old companion she had forgotten to pack. Ania picked it up, pressed it to her chest, and sat on the edge of the bed.
She didn't cry.
Instead, she stared at the walls. The same walls that had watched her raise them. That had seen her at her weakest. That had heard her whispered prayers and silent breakdowns.
She opened Minhoo's note with trembling fingers.
> "Don't worry about us. You've done everything. You gave us everything. Now give yourself the same love. We'll be waiting. We'll be proud."
It broke her.
Not in a loud, dramatic way. But gently, like paper being torn in slow motion.
She folded the note and held it to her lips, closing her eyes. A single tear slid down her cheek, carving a path through her calm mask.
Outside, the city continued living—cars passed, people walked, the world turned.
Inside, Ania Malik sat with her silence, learning the shape of emptiness all over again.
But deep in her chest, where sorrow met strength, a quiet promise formed. She had let them go. Now, she would begin to find herself again.
Not as just their mother.
But as Ania.
The woman who once dreamed. The woman who once loved. The woman who was more than her grief.