A Love Restored

(Then)

It was a bright, sunny day. A very hot day, at that. Inside our house, the air was thick with the aroma of brewing coffee and my mother’s nervous laughter.

Across the table from her sat Mr. Corsino, Felix’s father, his silver mane glinting like moonlight. They were an unlikely pair, my mother, all sunshine and glee, and him, stoic and powerful, the presence of a man who couldn’t be messed with. Yet, they fell into conversation with the ease of old friends, their laughter echoing through the room.

Felix and I were seated on a separate couch. He was playing a game on his phone while I watched the screen. It was difficult and he kept on losing swearing under his breath each time his character died. It made me laugh,

Our parents had been old friends. They had dated, many years ago, but then my mother had fallen in love with my dad and married him.

Mr. Corsino rarely visited alone. Usually, when the families met, it was all four spouses. But when he did, my mom and him got along like a house on fire. They reminisced about their youth, a shared past that excluded me and Felix entirely. Words like “Woodstock” and “flower power” flew by, conjuring images of vacations and boarding school and dancing hippies, a world as foreign to me as Mars.

They joked about their failed love affair, about paths not taken and hearts that drifted, their eyes crinkling at the corners with a shared nostalgia that left me feeling like an intruder as I listened to their conversation.

“Never thought our kids would become friends, and such good friends, did you?” Mr. Corsino chuckled, his voice a low rumble. The pair watched us. I was engrossed in the screen of Felix’s phone, pretending not to listen to the conversation, but I was.

“Least likely pair to be friends, I’d say,” my mother chimed in, her smile reaching her eyes. “But look at them, thick as thieves.” Her face was soft as she looked at Mr. Corsino, “I’m glad, though, that they love each other so.”

The conversation Dowed on, weaving a tapestry of stories from before I was born. They spoke of music festivals and late night expeditions, of dreams chased and regrets swallowed. I listened, captivated, a voyeur into a past that shaped my present.

The air went thick with unspoken words, with ghosts of a love lost and a life unlived. In that moment, Mr. Corsino wasn’t the imposing mafia boss of the Corsino family, but a man haunted by memories, a man who had been in love with my mother and had lost her.

his arm

My mother rose, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “We had our chances, didn’t we?” she said, her voice soft. But maybe… maybe this time, through our children, things can be different.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched tight, then surprised me by pulling her into a tight embrace. I watched them there, two figures silhouetted against the sunlight coming in through the window, their bodies speaking a language beyond words, a language of sorrow and hope, and regretful loves lost.

As Mr. Corsino left, the scent of his pipe tobacco lingering in the air, my mother sat at the table, her gaze lost in the swirling grey beyond the window. 1 joined her, a silent solidarity bridging the gap between us.

“You were happy, weren’t you?” I asked, the question hovering in the air like a question mark

She blinked, then nodded, a single tear tracing a shimmering path down her cheek. “He made me laugh, Flora. Made me believe in sunshine and fairy

tales.”

We sat in silence for a while, the weight…of her words pressing down on me. I wanted to offer her comfort, to chase away the ghosts of a life unlived, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I reached out, taking her hand in mine, a small gesture that spoke volumes.

“He sees that in you too, Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Mom, does Dad make you feel the same way?”

She looked at me, her eyes wide and searching, as if seeing me for the first time. Then, a slow smile bloomed on her face, chasing away the shadows.

“I love your Dad,” she said, “He made me feel invincible,” she smiled, “When we first met. That’s why I married him. And there is no one in the world I would rather have had you with.”

I smiled. “I know, Mom,”

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a warm haze of laughter and shared memories. We dag out old photograph albums, our fingers tracing the faded faces of parents and grandparents, strangers who suddenly felt familiar, their lives woven into the intricate tapestry of our own. My mother laughed as she recounted wild camping trips and impromptu jam sessions, her eyes regaining the youthful sparkle I’d only seen glimpses of before

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the conservatory, she turned to me, her eyes filled with a newfound warmth.

“Thank you, Flora,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “For reminding me of who I was, of who I still can be.”

took root – a pas

a poisonous vine twisting around my heart. What if?

I squeezed her hand, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I love you, Mom. Always,”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

The embers of my mother’s happiness glowed warm. Witnessing it, a bitter thought

What if the memories Mr. Corsino and she recounted and held hadn’t just been two teenagers lost in laughter, but two souls tethered by vows? What if the echoes of their music festival dance hadn’t faded into whispered regrets, but blossomed into a life shared? What if she had married him, instead?

In that alternate melody, my mother would not be a woman made miserable by a man who loved her sometimes, and hated her other times. She’d be loved. Respected. Cared for. She’d be a phoenix, happy in the warmth of Felix’s father’s love, rising from the ashes of a life unlived, her wings ablaze with unfettered joy.

And me? I wouldn’t exist.

But if I didn’t exist, I wouldn’t care. My mother leading a life of joy and happiness was worth me never having existed.

Besides, Felix wouldn’t exist, too. And what good was my life if he wasn’t in the world?

The guilt of this thought, heavy and suffocating, threatened to drown me. Was I, the product of their paths not taken, the reason for her muted laughter, the whispers of what could have been?

But then, my mother’s hand, warm and comforting, clasped mine. Her eyes, clear and serene, met mine, reflecting not regret, but acceptance, and joy.

“You are my greatest gift, Flora.” She smiled, “No matter what Felix’s father and I talk about, I never want you to think I regret a moment of loving and marrying your father. My life and my marriage is successful, because it gave me you.”

I wrapped her in a hug, and she held me for a few minutes. Her eyes were lit with happiness, and her expression was soft with remembrance of good times bygone.

This was the last time I saw my mother smile.

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