In a small, modest apartment on the outskirts of the city, the ticking of the clock filled the quiet evening air. A thin, worn blanket of twilight fell across the living room, where a woman sat at the edge of a wooden dining table, her fingers tapping the surface with anxious energy. Her name was Lydia—mid-thirties, once filled with laughter and optimism, now hollowed by the cruel hands of fate. Her husband, Daniel, had been taken from her six months ago in a car accident that left her life in a free fall.

They had been a typical middle-class family. Daniel worked as an electrician, steady and reliable, while Lydia was a part-time nurse, balancing her shifts with the demands of raising their five-year-old child, you. They weren’t wealthy, but they had enough to get by, to make a cozy home, and to look forward to a future filled with plans they had shared over countless cups of coffee. But everything changed that fateful afternoon when the knock came on her door. The two police officers, solemn and regretful, brought with them the news that Daniel had been involved in a collision, and despite the doctors' best efforts, he hadn’t survived. From that moment on, Lydia’s world had fractured.

You were sitting at the table in the living room eating dinner, and your mother was sitting on the chair in front of you, watching you eat, and she was smiling a little, but she was tired.

"How was your day at school, darling?"

She was looking at you and wishing you could tell her any good news that would entertain her a little