Standing at my mother’s funeral, I felt as if the ground beneath me had crumbled. The breeze whispered through the trees, but it wasn’t soothing. It only sharpened the silence she had left behind.
My mom was my closest friend—the one person I could always turn to when the world became too heavy. With her gone, everything felt suffocatingly quiet, like life itself had paused and forgotten how to move forward.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Thea,” Aunt Claire said, gripping my hand. “I know it’s hard now, but time will heal. You’ll see.”
I nodded, unable to find words.
Time heals? No. Time doesn’t heal. It only stretches the pain into longer, thinner threads until you learn how to breathe around it.
Each passing second reminded me that she wasn’t coming back. Worse still, I couldn’t have children. Without her, the idea of a future—of passing on memories, laughter, or stories—felt painfully empty.
What did I have left?
My family tried to surround me, to fill the void with their voices and their concern, but I couldn’t bear it. They didn’t understand the hollow ache that throbbed inside me, the kind of grief that settles deep in your bones.
Every corner of our house echoed with her absence. Her favorite blanket still rested on the armchair. Her scent lingered faintly in the air, refusing to disappear.
That was when I noticed her old, shabby diary—the one she had used to plan her dream journey through the forest to Crabtree Falls. The cover was worn, the pages soft from years of being touched.
She never got to finish it. Her illness had taken that from her, just as it had taken her from me.
I traced the edges of the diary with my fingers, feeling a strange pull in my chest.
I’m going to complete her journey.
I couldn’t give her life back—but I could walk the path she never finished.
The next day, when I told my family, their reactions were exactly what I expected.
“Thea, you can’t be serious,” my brother said, concern etched across his face. “Going into the forest alone? It’s dangerous.”
“You should stay here,” Aunt Claire added gently. “With family. You don’t need to do this.”
But I did.
I needed to feel close to her—not through memories or photographs, but through movement, effort, and courage.
“She wanted to finish the journey,” I said quietly. “And now I will. For her.”
Their protests faded into background noise as I packed my bag. I took the diary with me, its fragile pages filled with her handwriting. The last page was empty.
Waiting.
The forest called to me—a place where I could finally confront the silence she had left behind.
The forest wasn’t just a challenge. It was a battle.
Every step tested me. My boots sank into muddy ground, my legs burned, and the cold crept into my bones.
“Come on, Thea,” I muttered. “One step at a time.”
When I reached the river, my heart sank. The water had risen after the rains, wild and fast-moving.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered.
The moment I stepped in, the cold stole my breath. The current pushed against me, stronger than I expected.
“Don’t fall… don’t fall,” I chanted.
But I did.
My foot slipped, and my backpack tore from my hands, vanishing downstream.
“No! No, no, no!” I shouted, helplessly watching my supplies disappear.
All I had left were the urn with my mother’s ashes and her journal, both tucked safely inside my jacket.
“At least I still have you,” I whispered, pressing them to my chest.
Climbing the hill afterward felt impossible. My foot slipped again, and I fell hard.
The pain exploded through my arm. I lay there, staring at the darkening sky, my body shaking.
“Mom,” I whispered, tears spilling freely. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so tired.”
I cried until my chest hurt, until my voice broke, until there was nothing left but exhaustion.
Then, a memory surfaced.
I was sick as a child, burning with fever, and she was lying beside me, brushing my hair back.
“Do you know why we named you Thea?” she asked gently.
I shook my head.
“‘Theo’ means ‘God.’ We wanted you to remember you’re never alone. You carry strength inside you—even when you don’t feel it.”
Her words echoed through me now.
You’re stronger than you think. You’re never alone.
I pushed myself up. Slowly. Painfully. One step at a time.
And then—I saw it.
The cabin.
“Oh, thank God,” I breathed.
Inside the cabin, my body betrayed me. Fever, dizziness, weakness—it was exactly how my mother had described it.
This was where she had fallen ill. Where help found her too late.
I collapsed onto the floor.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I’m not strong enough.”
That night, I dreamed of her.
She smiled at me, calm and peaceful.
“Dear,” she said softly, “it’s time to let me go. There is no pain anymore.”
“I don’t know how to live without you,” I cried.
“You can,” she replied. “This is your journey now.”
Morning light woke me. The pain wasn’t gone—but something else was.
Clarity.
I walked outside, urn in my hands.
“Goodbye, Mom,” I whispered, releasing her ashes into the air.
At Crabtree Falls, the roar of the waterfall filled my soul. Mist wrapped around me as if the forest itself welcomed me home.
“I made it,” I whispered.
I stepped into the freezing water, letting it consume me. The cold stripped away grief, fear, and guilt—everything I had carried for so long.
When I emerged, shaking but alive, I felt lighter.
“I can move on.”
As I left the forest, I flagged down a passing car. The driver, an older woman with kind eyes, smiled.
“Need a ride?”
“Yes,” I said. “I really do.”
As we drove away, a new purpose settled in my heart.
I couldn’t carry on my mother’s bloodline—but I could carry on her love.
I would adopt a child.
My journey wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.
