He lowered his phone without even realizing it.
“Ethan… your mom…” He swallowed. “Your mom is gone. You know that.”
Ethan didn’t blink.
“She didn’t leave,” he said softly. “She just hasn’t found her way back.”
Michael had no answer.
The next morning was bitterly cold. The woman had moved near a closed bakery, rocking the stroller gently.
“It’s chilly today, baby,” she murmured to the bear. “But Mommy will keep you warm.”
People passed. Some dropped coins. She always said thank you. If someone gave her bread, she tore a piece and placed it in the stroller first.
“He’s hungry too,” she explained calmly.
Her mind drifted in and out of clarity. She couldn’t fully remember what had happened — only flashes: headlights, rain, breaking glass, pain. And always, the image of a little boy pressed against her chest while she sang.
In her broken world, the bear was her child. She called him “Ethan.”
That night, Michael couldn’t sleep.
In his large, quiet house in Brookstone Hills, the silence felt suffocating. He opened old files on his laptop — birthday videos, family photos.
There she was.
Olivia.
Young. Smiling. Holding baby Ethan in her arms and singing:
“You are my sunshine…”