Today, I laughed with Leo.
Today, I didn’t feel broken.
The apartment was modest—two bedrooms, pale blue curtains—but to her, it felt like a palace. There were photos on the fridge now: blurry ones of Leo with spaghetti sauce on his face, candid shots of Brian holding two cups of hot cocoa, smiling in a way she hadn’t seen in years.
The piano sat near the window, slightly out of tune. Old ivory keys yellowed at the edges. She hadn’t touched one in years. The first time she sat down, her hands trembled, but they found their way.
You are my sunshine. My only sunshine.
Her fingers stumbled on the second verse. Her voice cracked, but she kept going. And when she looked up, Leo was standing by the door, holding his bear, listening. He didn’t speak. He just smiled.
Leo had a project, one he didn’t tell anyone about. It started with a shoebox, then a few sheets of paper, a glue stick, markers. He called it his time capsule.
Inside, he placed a photo of his mom holding him at the hospital, still tired but beaming; a drawing he’d made last week; three figures standing under a big tree—one had long yellow hair; his mom’s old teddy bear, the one she’d once treated like him when she couldn’t remember; and a folded note in his handwriting, printed carefully: Mom didn’t die. She just got lost, and now she’s home.
He taped the box shut and placed it under his bed. Not to forget, but to always remember how far they’d come.
That evening, Donna stood in front of the mirror. For the first time in five years, she didn’t look away. Her reflection wasn’t perfect. The faint scar still curved along her cheek. Her eyes held more weight than they once had. But the woman looking back wasn’t broken. She was healing.
She wore a pale blue dress she had kept all these years in a forgotten bag—wrinkled, a bit faded, but still hers. She ran a brush through her now longer hair, letting it fall past her shoulders. Brian passed by the door and paused. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like it was the first time he’d seen her in years.
She turned toward him, smiling shyly. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” he said gently. “It’s not just anything.”
Donna took a breath, and for the first time, it felt like air filled her completely. There was still work to do, more therapy, more hard days. But for now, there was music, there was laughter, there were pancakes with too much syrup, and bedtime stories with Leo curled into her side. For now, there was life, and she was living it.
The hall shimmered with soft candlelight. Golds and creams dressed the room, but nothing drew the eyes more than the white piano at center stage, and the woman sitting behind it. Donna.
She wore a simple, elegant blue dress. Her hair, grown out and softly curled, framed her face with quiet grace. The faint scar on her cheek was still visible, but tonight, it didn’t define her. It was simply part of her story.
Leo sat in the front row, his small hands gripping Brian’s. He leaned forward just slightly, eyes wide, heart full. He knew this moment mattered.
And then, Donna began to play. The first notes of “You Are My Sunshine” rang out, clear and calm. But it wasn’t the lullaby of old. Not exactly. Her fingers moved with more strength now, more certainty. Her voice when it came in was steady. Not perfect, but true.
You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray...
