Rain blurred my view of the house where I once tucked Hazel into bed. Now, I was just a visitor.
Three years ago, cancer stole my strength, forcing me to leave her with Nathan, who promised it was temporary. But as months passed, visits faded. One day, an envelope arrived—legal documents. Too weak to fight, I lost custody.
Now healed, I returned for Hazel. But Nathan’s wife, Sara, told me she didn’t want to see me. I refused to believe it and found them at the fair.
“Hazel!” I called, but she clung to Nathan. A gust of wind took my wig, exposing my bare scalp. Her eyes widened. “You’re not my mom. You’re just a bald lady.”
Back home, I clutched her old teddy bear, heartbroken. Then, I saw a school art contest. Hazel’s painting—our bedtime story—proved she hadn’t forgotten me.
At the contest, I played a video of us together and revealed the letters I had sent. Hazel realized Sara had hidden them. She turned to me, eyes brimming. Then she ran into my arms.
“Mom,” she whispered. “I thought you forgot me.”
Nathan, watching, finally understood. “Can I go home with Mommy?” Hazel asked. He nodded.
That night, my little girl found her way back to me. A mother’s love, like the stars, is always there—waiting to guide her home.
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