They didn’t remember the diner.
They didn’t remember the dreams.
But they were happy.
And the next night, my older son said, “I had a weird dream. About a lady with no mouth. But she faded away.”
He smiled.
“I told her I liked Mommy more.”
I hugged him, tears in my eyes.
That was the last time they ever mentioned the cabin.
I took the drawings. Burned them.
Deleted the recording of the lullaby.
I stopped going to that diner.
Sometimes, late at night, I still think about her.
I think about whatever deal I made.
And I know one thing.
I got my boys back.
Not because I was stronger.
But because I chose love over fear.
And that’s what saved us.
Sometimes, when we’re faced with the unknown, the only way out is to choose love—even if it means letting go of what makes sense.
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