A mother came to me.
She was holding a photograph.
It was her daughter's.
A mother came to me with tears in her eyes.
She wanted to tell me about the stories.
She wanted to tell me about the singing. The painting.
“My daughter, you see...”
And she held the photograph close to her chest as if that would bring her daughter back.
“I'm writing a book, you see...”
And she poured her soul into it.
A mother came to me and whispered.
“It was too much...”
And I thought, it was. It was too much pain.
100 Word Stories