Bound by blood

A heavy heart

---

Two years, three months, ten weeks, six days, four hours, and twenty-four minutes. That's how long it's been since they left me. I sat in front of their graves, placing sunflowers on each tombstone. My father only loved sunflowers because my mother did-such was his love for her, an unwavering devotion that colored everything in their lives.

A sob escaped before I could stop it, and I quickly covered my mouth, my heart aching as if it would never heal. The grief was a living thing, twisting and turning within me, a constant reminder of the love I had lost.

I gently traced their names, a bittersweet smile pulling at my lips. I wore a yellow sundress with butterflies on it-a tribute to my mother. She loved the color yellow, just like her personality: bright, warm, and full of life. The dress hugged me softly, reminding me of her gentle spirit and the happiness she brought into my life.

And the butterflies... they reminded me of what my dad always called her. I remember the day I asked him why.

---

It was a sunny afternoon. I was lying on my father's lap, his strong hands gently resting on my back as we sat under the warm sunlight. My mother was nearby, humming softly as she tended to her flowers in the garden.

"Papa, why do you always call Mama 'butterfly'?" I asked, my voice full of curiosity as I tilted my head up to look at him. I had always wondered why my father held such a special nickname for her.

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he gazed at my mother, who was blissfully unaware of our conversation. "Because, sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle, "your mother is like a butterfly. She's beautiful, delicate, and full of grace, but there's so much more to her than meets the eye. Just like a butterfly, she flutters through life, always bringing color and joy wherever she goes."

I listened quietly, my heart swelling with admiration for both of them. My father's love for my mother was so deep, so pure, that it seemed to touch every part of his life. It was in the way he looked at her, as if she was the most precious thing in the world, and it was evident in the little things he did for her.

"She's resilient too," he continued, his voice steady. "No matter how hard life gets, she never lets anything weigh her down. She moves with such elegance, even in the toughest of times."

I felt a sense of pride wash over me. My mother was strong, and my father saw that strength in her.

He paused for a moment, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear before continuing, "And you know how butterflies don't stay in one place for too long? They move from flower to flower, spreading beauty and happiness. That's your mother. She's always lifting spirits, always making the world around her a little brighter, just by being herself."

I smiled up at him, a soft giggle escaping my lips. "That sounds just like Mama."

He nodded, a deep affection in his eyes. "It does, doesn't it? She's my butterfly-always has been, always will be."

After he finished speaking, I saw my mother glance our way, a knowing smile on her face. She walked over, her hands dirty from the garden soil, and sat beside us.

"What's going on here?" she asked playfully, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Just telling her why you're my butterfly," my father said, grinning. My mother's eyes softened, and she leaned in to kiss his forehead, her touch tender.