It had been two years since Mom passed away. In those two years, the house that was used to her warmth became as cold as a room that no one dared to open. I learned to be quiet, learned to hug my pillow to lull myself to sleep, learned to look at Dad bowing his head to the dinner table and sigh. I kept thinking that as long as Dad was still by my side, the cracks in my heart would slowly heal.

But then one day, dad said: “I want to remarry.”

Those words were like a pebble thrown into a calm lake. Ripples swirled in my heart. I sat there, stunned. The image of my mother on the altar was still there, the mourning cloth I kept in the closet. And yet, my father…

The woman moved in after a simple wedding. I called her “aunt”. On the first morning, she threw out my mother’s wardrobe, packing it up like trash. I ran over, hugging the familiar coat, my eyes blurred:“Don’t! This is your mother’s!”

She frowned, her voice sharp: “When a person is dead, leaving behind things will only make the house more crowded. Don’t argue, you child!”

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I turned to Dad, hoping he would stop me. But he just stood there, biting his lip, eyes downcast. My heart clenched. Mom abandoned for the second time, this time by the man he had sworn allegiance to.

In the days that followed, I felt like I was lost in my own home. I swallowed the food my aunt cooked, choking me. One day, my aunt poured me a glass of milk. I drank it all in one gulp, my mouth was bitter, my stomach was churning. Vomiting came, I trembled. In the pale yellow light, I saw that the expiration date on the box had passed a month. I held my stomach and looked up at my aunt. She just shrugged: “That thing is still usable, don’t make a fuss.”

I burst into tears, ran to find my dad, wanted to hug him like when I was little. But my aunt interrupted: “You’re a grown boy, why are you hugging and acting so spoiled? You have to be careful, or people will laugh.”

Dad hesitated, then… removed my hand. At that moment, I felt like an outcast in my own family.

At night, I lay covered in blankets, tears streaming down my pillow. The cold ticking of the clock hands. I wanted to scream, to ask my mother: “Why did you leave me? Why did you let me face this pain alone?” But I only dared to cry silently, letting my sobs burst out in the darkness.

One rainy night, I heard my father and aunt arguing in the living room.

“You’re too much! Why did you throw away her things? Why did you let the baby drink spoiled milk?” My father’s voice was harsh, a rare occurrence.

“I just want to clean up, to let him forget the past. If you still hold on to your ex, why do you need to marry me?” My aunt replied bitterly.

I hid behind the stairs, my heart trembling. For the first time, I saw my father shout with tears in his eyes: “She is the boy’s mother! She is also a part of my life! No one has the right to erase her!”

Those words were like a flickering flame in the dark room. I suddenly believed that Dad still remembered, still held Mom’s image in his heart. But then, Aunt burst into tears, ran into the room, and slammed the door. Dad collapsed on the chair, holding his head, exhausted. I stood there, both hurt and angry, tears falling again.

In the following days, the family atmosphere became more tense. I became more withdrawn, learning to be patient. But one time, when my aunt tried to hide my mother’s memorial photo, I screamed: “That’s my mother! You have no right!”

I trembled, mustered all my courage and said: “You can hate me, but please don’t insult my mother. She is my flesh and blood. You can replace my wife, but you will never be my mother!”

My aunt was stunned, her hand dropped the photo frame. My father ran down from upstairs and hugged me. For the first time in two years, I was able to hug him tightly. He hoarsely said: “I’m sorry… I was too weak, letting you suffer.”

She stood still, then turned away. After that day, she never touched my mother’s belongings again. Still cold, still unloving, but at least she didn’t hurt me anymore.

Time passed. The pain was still there, but I knew I had to grow up and be strong to protect my mother’s memory. And to remind my father that love is not about forgetting the person who has passed away, but about learning to live with that memory.

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Tonight, I still cover myself with the blanket, still crying, but my tears are no longer of despair. In my heart, my mother is still present – ​​gentle, smiling. I whisper: “Mom, I promise to live well. I will not let anyone erase your image in me.”

Outside the window, the rain was falling softly. I realized that no matter how unfair life is, maternal love is a light that never goes out.