I hesitated, looking at him with a mix of hope and uncertainty. "But… what now? I've always wanted to paint, to write, make jewelry with silver and silk… maybe even help heal people."
He looked at me, eyes sharp but steady. "I understand," he said, his voice almost rough. "You want to do these things, and I will support you. But think—can creating little things like that bring enough coins to buy a house, to support your kids, to run a firm?"
I bit my lip. I wanted to argue, to tell him that passion and love could build more than money—but I knew better than to ignore the wisdom in his words.
"I… I understand," I whispered.
He sighed, softer now, placing his hand over mine. "I can't build homes with my hands anymore because of my injury. Sometimes we need to think in another way, Aria, to better our lives… and the lives of those we love. Not everything we wish for can be done the old way. We have to adapt. We have to build smart, not just hard."
I nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. I could feel the truth in them. Maybe it wasn't about the things I dreamed of doing for myself—it was about creating something lasting, something that would protect my daughters, secure a future for them, and give me the strength to stand on my own.
And for the first time in years, I felt a flicker of clarity: I could do this. I would.
I finally felt a little less pain, able to walk a little better. Sebastian took me to the orchard under the harsh sun. The small trees were wilting, losing leaves from the drought. He was visibly upset.
"Look," he said, pointing to the parched soil, "this is what can happen in every aspect of life. Things you cannot predict. But we adapt. These trees will need at least another year to start producing. We need a proper system for watering."
I listened as he explained—water tanks on the hill, pumps, electric timers to open and close valves automatically. But in my mind, I thought, we can water by hand, I've done this before. I had tended hundreds of plants—tomatoes, peppers, chilies—carried canisters of water down the hill many times per day. I believed I could do it again. I was… stubborn.
While Sebastian went to cut grass around the orchard, I grabbed two heavy water cans and started carrying water from a neighbor's well. I didn't feel the strain at first, didn't expect it. He warned me quietly, but I didn't listen. I was determined.
By the time we got home, my body rebelled. The pain returned like fire running through my muscles and spine. I collapsed onto the bed, unable to move for a week. Nothing helped.
Sebastian sat beside me, calm but firm. "See? Lesson learned. We can't do everything on our own. When we hire workers, we must respect them and their work. You had strength and power before—but your health fell. You cannot push your body like that anymore. You need to think, Aria. Think smart, not just hard."
I stared at the ceiling, absorbing his words. I knew he was right. I had always believed I could handle everything myself, but my body was not invincible. Maybe, just maybe, this time I would learn to combine my will with patience, strategy, and guidance.
After contacting social services a few times, I finally got my girls for a week-long vacation. Just a week, but it felt like a lifetime of breathing fresh air. We played outside, laughed, ran around, and I pushed my limits to keep up with them, hiding as much of my pain as I could.
Sebastian was there, helping me, playing catch with them, joking and laughing. He even did the BBQ, teaching the girls small things—put your shoes away, wash your hands, be careful with that. I watched them, feeling warmth I hadn't known in years.
As evening approached and exhaustion crept into my body, he told the girls to go play in the kids' room, leaving me to rest. They obeyed happily, but I noticed something troubling. Their little faces, their habits—they were neglected by their father. Small details I had missed before now stood out sharply.
I realized I couldn't just enjoy this happiness; I had to act. My girls deserved care, guidance, and love, not just fleeting moments of fun. The responsibility weighed on me, but for the first time, I also felt the power to do something about it. I wasn't alone. I had Sebastian, and for the first time, I had hope that I could rebuild not just myself, but also the lives of the little ones I loved most.
I knew they were neglected the moment they came into my arms. The hunger in their eyes, the faint smell of unwashed skin and hair—I immediately knew they needed a proper shower. I gently cleaned them, washed away the traces of days without care.
When it came to food, it hit me even harder. They asked for simple things—potatoes, salad—and ate as if feeding four grown adults. My heart broke into pieces. I smiled at them, hiding my anger, but inside, I was raging at my ex. These were his kids too, his responsibility as much as mine. How could he let this happen? How could he leave them like this, hungry, tired, uncared for?
I held them close, letting them eat and rest, all the while silently promising myself: I would protect them, provide for them, and show them love they deserved. I would not let anyone—no matter how much power or authority they claimed—harm them again.
Even in my pain and weakness, a spark of determination lit inside me. This was the first time I truly felt my strength as their mother—and as a woman who had survived too much already.
After days with us, I finally saw the change. Color returned to their cheeks, their pale faces no longer marked by dark under-eyes. They looked healthier, brighter… alive. My heart swelled with relief and pride, but also broke in a way that words can't capture.
I had to drive them back. Just a week had passed, but it felt like an eternity. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. I wanted so badly to keep them with me, to never let them leave again. But the law wouldn't allow it—not yet. Taking them now would be considered kidnapping.
I am their mother. The most basic truth, the most obvious fact in the world. Yet here I was, forced to leave them behind, powerless. I fought back the tears, swallowing hard as I watched them wave goodbye. Every step they took back toward their father's house felt like a stab to my chest.
I whispered to myself, barely audible, "I will get you back. I will fight. I will make this right." Even in my exhaustion and pain, I knew one thing clearly: I would not stop until they were truly safe, truly mine again.
After I drove them away, the silence in the car felt heavier than any weight I had carried before. The sunlight through the window couldn't warm me; it only highlighted how empty everything felt. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to hide the tears I hadn't let fall in front of them. My body trembled—not from the drive, not from the pain in my legs—but from the raw ache of letting them go, even for a week.
I remembered their little faces, the way my youngest had clutched the small fruit she brought me, the way my older daughter had concentrated on her bracelet beads, trying to show me she cared. I had watched them laugh, play, even eat heartily after days of neglect. And yet, leaving them behind felt like stepping into a cold, dark void. My mind replayed everything—the hunger in their eyes before they came to me, the sadness I could never fully heal, the stolen moments I could never get back.
I pulled over, my hands still gripping the wheel, and I couldn't stop the sobs anymore. I cried like I hadn't in years, body shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks. My chest ached, my back throbbed, and the exhaustion of months of abuse and struggle hit me like a tidal wave. I whispered their names softly, "My girls… I'll bring you back… I'll bring you home."
And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned slowly, and there he was—Sebastian. His caramel skin seemed to glow even in the dim light of the car, dark hair slightly mussed, eyes soft but full of concern. "Aria," he said gently, using my name for the first time in a while in a moment that made me shiver. "It's okay. You did what you could. They are safe. You are safe."
I shook my head, hiccuping through my sobs. "Safe? Safe isn't enough! They're… they're still with him, with the people who hurt them, who—" I couldn't even finish the thought. My throat burned, my hands shook uncontrollably, and the pain I had been carrying all these months surged back.
He leaned closer, arms wrapping around me, pulling me against him in the narrow space of the car. "I know," he whispered. "I see everything. I know the hurt, the fear, everything they did to you. But you are not alone anymore. Not now, not ever again. I'm here. I will protect you, and I will protect them too."
I let my head fall against his chest, trembling, feeling the warmth and strength radiate from him. For the first time in so long, I felt a small fragment of peace—like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't completely broken. He didn't say it would be easy. He didn't promise that the past would disappear. He simply held me, let me cry, let me grieve, and in that moment, that was enough.
He pulled back just slightly, brushing the wet hair from my face. "You need rest," he said softly, almost commanding. "You've been fighting every day for so long. Let yourself breathe tonight. Tomorrow, we plan. Tomorrow, we build. And you, Aria… you will be stronger than you've ever imagined."
I nodded, still shaking, still teary, but feeling a spark—a tiny, fragile spark—of hope ignite inside me. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could fight, I could heal, and one day, I could reclaim everything that was taken from me.