Life used to feel perfect.
Richard and I had a happy home—two kids we adored, laughter, routines, and love that others admired. Ellie, 12, was bright and curious; Max, 8, was her shadow. We spent weekends at the beach, watched movies in blankets, lived like a warm sitcom.
Then everything changed.
Ellie grew tired, sore, bruised. We thought it was nothing—until the diagnosis: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
Our world cracked open.
For eight months, we clung to hope through chemo, hospital beds, and tearful nights. Ellie stayed brave. “I look like a warrior,” she’d say, bald and grinning.
But one quiet March morning, she was gone.
Grief swallowed us. Richard disappeared into work, Max into silence. I barely functioned.
Then something odd happened.
Every evening, Max waved at the backyard. When I asked why, he whispered, “Ellie. She waves back.”
I brushed it off—until I checked the footage.
Max waved. And near the treehouse, a flicker—Ellie’s height, her purple sweater, a soft wave.
The next night, I followed Max outside.
“This was our secret spot,” he said. “She promised she’d stay. Just different.”
Then came a rustle—and a girl stepped out. Same sweater. Same warmth.
“Ava?” I asked.
Ellie’s best friend.
“She asked me to come. Said Max would need someone. She gave me this sweater so he’d remember.”
I sank to the ground in tears.
Max hugged me. “She’s not really gone, Mom.”
And, in that moment, I believed him.
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