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Then she’d look at me and smile anyway.

Always without failing.

This fucking cruel life took everything it could from her.

Her parents.

Her health.

Her peace.

It robbed her fucking blind but it never stole her kindness and her sweetheart.

That’s the part I still can’t understand, even to this day.

The world rewards bastards.

It buries soft-hearted people like her.

Yet despite everything, she never stopped choosing kindness.

I grew up to be the opposite of my mother.

Looking around the massive master room, a familiar hollowness settles over me.

Funny, isn’t it?

Money bought me every book I’d ever wanted.

But it couldn’t buy back the woman who taught me why stories mattered in the first place.

Fuck.

I miss you, Ma.

As I get comfortable and watch the snow drift past the window, a memory pulls me under.

“Hey, Stephy.”

That’s always the first thing mom says whenever she walks through the front door and finds me waiting for her.

Then she cups my face in her freezing hands and kisses me until I complain that she’s doing too much.

She never stops.

I never want her to.

Because her hugs make me feel warm, even when the rest of the world feels frozen.

After dinner—usually kimchi jjigae because she knows it’s my favorite—we curl up together on our beat-up couch and read.

That winter, my favorite book is Where the Wild Things Are.

I love the illustrations, and I love Max.

I also love the idea that some lonely kid can disappear into another world and come back wearing a crown.

When we finish reading, Ma switches on the television for me before carrying our empty bowls into the kitchen.