I didn't hide anything. I told her everything—about the resignation, the stolen bonus.
Not a trace of blame crossed her face. Instead, she gently took my hand, patting it softly.
"Then it's good you left," she said, her voice full of quiet strength. "A company like that isn't worth my son breaking himself for."
"Your health matters most—and your peace of mind even more."
"I still have some savings. Don't rush into another job. Rest for a while."
Her words flowed through me like warmth on a winter morning.
The days that followed seemed to slow down, each moment stretching softly into the next.
In the mornings, I accompanied her to the market, listening to her bargain cheerfully with vendors while picking the freshest vegetables.
By late morning, we'd stroll through the park, blending into a crowd of elderly people practicing Tai Chi—her moves were graceful while mine was awkward and clumsy.
In the afternoons, we'd sit on the balcony, brewing herbal tea, watching the leaves swirl in the water as we chatted about neighbors and small, inconsequential things.