I thought my adopted daughter was taking me to a nursing home, but when I saw where we were really going, I was shocked.

Later, when everyone had left and silence filled the house again, we sat together on the terrace. The moon illuminated the garden.

“Were you afraid of losing me?” he asked in a low voice.

I thought for a moment.

—No. I was afraid of losing my place in your life.

He squeezed my hand.

—You are my place.

The next day I woke up early. The sun streamed in through the large windows, illuminating the workshop.

I picked up a paintbrush.

My hands were still trembling a little.

But it wasn’t scary.

It was exciting.

I submerged it in blue paint.

The first brushstroke was timid.
The second, more confident.

I heard soft footsteps behind me.

—Can I see?

I turned around.

Livia was there, smiling.

-Always.

He came closer and rested his head on my shoulder.

—You know, Mom? I never thanked you properly.

—You don’t have to do it.

—Yes, I do. Thank you for never making me feel different. Thank you for choosing to stay.

I caressed her face.

—I didn’t choose to stay. I chose to love. And love doesn’t go away.

She smiled.

—Then let’s make a deal.

-Which?

—You paint. I take care of the garden. And every Sunday we eat together here on the terrace.

—With coffee from a pot and sweet bread?

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