The lake day stayed in my heart like a warm stone. It was the first time in so long that I had felt not only calm, but hopeful. That hope started to spread through me like fire.
I woke the next morning with a new determination. My kids will come. I don't know when, I don't know how—but they will.
That thought was enough to push me into action. I picked up my phone and began calling around. Old friends, neighbors, even distant contacts I hadn't spoken to in years. My voice trembled at first, but as I explained—I'm preparing for my kids to come home—something inside me grew steadier.
And then, slowly, things began arriving.
A bag of tiny dresses, still smelling faintly of lavender soap. A box of shoes, some new, some gently worn, lined neatly in pairs. A basket of toys—stuffed animals, cars, dolls—each one given with words of encouragement.
Every knock at the door was like a heartbeat of hope. Every item I placed in the small corner I had cleared for them felt like proof that my dream was real.
Sebastian watched me as I folded each dress, stacked shoes in rows, and placed the toys in little baskets. He didn't interrupt, didn't tell me to slow down. He only helped when I asked—lifting boxes, making space, handing me hangers. But I saw his eyes soften every time I smiled over some small thing, like a pink dress with flowers or a tiny pair of boots.
At one point, I stood back and looked at the growing pile of things for my kids. My hands trembled, but not from fear this time—from excitement. My hope had risen, stronger than I had ever felt it before.
"They'll need everything," I whispered, almost to myself.
Sebastian came closer, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "And they'll have it. Because you're building it for them, piece by piece. They'll walk into this home and know—they were wanted, prepared for, and loved."
I closed my eyes, letting his words sink deep into me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't just hope. I believed.
As I healed slowly, taking time to gather myself piece by piece, Sebastian stayed by my side. Every time another official paper arrived—letters from court, social services, demands I could barely understand—my chest would tighten. Words on paper had always been weapons used against me, twisted to make me seem small, guilty, or unworthy.
But Sebastian didn't let me drown in that fear. He sat with me at the table, poured tea, and showed me how to face each line.
"This isn't about writing pretty sentences," he told me firmly. "It's about clarity. About power. You need to write so they can't twist your words against you. Direct. Strong."
It was so different from what I had learned in school. Back then, I had been taught to write softly, politely, never stepping out of line. But this was something else. This was like learning a new language—one made of truth and courage.
At first, my hands shook when I wrote. I wanted to curl the letters small, as if hiding them would protect me. But Sebastian pushed the paper back to me when I did that.
"No," he said gently but firmly. "Write like you mean it. You've lived this. You know. Don't let them silence you even here."
So I rewrote. Again and again, until the words stood tall on the page, until even I could feel their weight.
And for the first time in my life, I began to see writing not as something fragile or ignored—but as my weapon, my shield.
The more he helped me, the more he explained, the more I felt something awaken inside me. For so long I had been crushed under the weight of fear, of doubt, of silence. But now, with every paper we finished, every sentence I dared to write, more fight rose within me.
I knew I would need all of it—every ounce of strength, every bit of courage—to bring my children back to me. I am their mother. And a mother does not give up.
Sebastian reminded me of that, not with empty words but with his actions. He stood beside me when I shook, steadied me when I faltered, and reminded me that love is not something I had to beg for. I had found someone who cared for me, who loved me without asking me to earn it. And I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserved that too.
And my children—they deserved it even more. They deserved a home where care was real, where someone would notice their laughter, their tears, their dreams. I had seen Sebastian care for them as if they were already his, and it lit a fire in me. This wasn't just about surviving anymore. It was about building something better—for me, and for them.
Finally, the day came.
A message, a contract—my book was accepted. I had written it, I had sold it. After all the nights of pouring my heart onto paper, after years of being told I was nothing, here was proof that I could create something of worth.
It was just a small step, a single seed sent out into the world, but it was mine. And then another book followed, and another. Each one was a piece of me, finally seen, finally alive beyond the walls of my pain.
With every sale, with every small bit of recognition, came something even more precious—freedom. Money was not everything, but it meant I could begin to rebuild my life with my own hands. It meant I wasn't entirely dependent. It meant I could give my children not only love, but stability.
For the first time in a long time, I felt the future open. Not as a shadow of fear, but as a promise waiting to be lived.
As I used my days to call my kids and write my books, Sebastian would sometimes take my hand and pull me outside. Lakes, the sea, green hills, even the quiet mystery of castles and ruins—we wandered through them all. Each place felt like a breath of air I hadn't known I needed.
He told me I needed this. And he was right.
The beauty, the stillness, the way the world stretched beyond my pain—it reminded me that life could still hold wonder.
One day, we went to a small town where a river ran right through its heart. The water shimmered under the sun, and the sound of it flowing made the whole place feel alive. Up on the nearby hill, a castle stood proudly, its stones carrying the weight of centuries.
As we walked closer, I realized they were preparing for a medieval festival. Knights in armor were polishing their shields, children dressed as princesses ran around with wooden swords, and the smell of roasting food and fresh bread drifted through the air. Horses with colorful saddles were being led through the streets, their hooves echoing on the cobblestones. Laughter, music, and the promise of celebration filled the air.
I was so excited I could hardly keep still. I had always wanted to see something like this—knights and festivals, history and magic mixing together. It felt like stepping into another time, another story. For the first time in so long, I wasn't just surviving. I was living.
We climbed the hill toward the castle, the air buzzing with voices and the sound of drums. The path was lined with stalls—wooden tables covered in handmade jewelry, carved trinkets, and jars of honey. I slowed down at every stall, touching little things with my fingers, my heart light as a child's.
Inside the castle grounds, the world transformed completely. Flags with bright colors waved in the wind, music from flutes and lutes danced around us, and the smell of roasted meat made my stomach rumble. I saw knights riding out to train, practicing swings with their swords, their armor clashing in rhythm. People cheered and clapped, and for a moment, I felt like I was watching a dream unfold right in front of me.
Sebastian bought us warm bread and a mug of spiced cider, and we sat down at a long wooden table. The taste was simple and strong, and I laughed as the foam of the cider touched my nose. I hadn't laughed like that in so long.
Looking around, seeing families, children dressed as little warriors and queens, I thought of my kids. My chest ached with longing, but at the same time, hope stirred. I imagined bringing them here one day, watching their eyes light up at the knights and princesses, hearing their laughter mix with mine.
As the sun lowered and the sky turned orange, the castle seemed almost alive, glowing against the horizon. I leaned into Sebastian, whispering, "Thank you for bringing me here."
He just smiled and said, "This is only the beginning."