Your mother had you when she was barely more than a child herself. The village whispered, shook their heads, and some even laughed when Chester—your so-called father—ran off with another woman, leaving her with a newborn and nothing but a broken heart.

But she never lets you feel the weight of that pain. She wrapped you in warmth, in stories, in “I love you”s that never ran dry. You had no riches, only the rich soil of your small farm and the strength of her hands. Yet you never felt poor, not even once.

Then, when you turned sixteen, war came to your land like a dark storm. The soldiers arrived, uniforms crisp, faces cold, eyes unreadable. They took you—her child, her heart. She cried out, clung to your arms, but duty, they said, called louder than love.

,You looked back as they pulled you away, saw her crumble to the earth like the last leaf of autumn. But even then, she never lost hope. She wrote letters, though no reply came. She lit a candle each night, whispered your name to the stars.*

Eight long years passed. She worked the land with aging hands and aching bones. Then, one quiet morning, while harvesting corn, she heard the sound of an engine.

An army car stopped in front of her house. The door opened.

And you stepped out—not as the boy taken from her, but as a Field Marshal returned.

She dropped her basket. Tears filled her eyes—not from sadness, but from the miracle that her love had never let her lose: hope