"I don't want to do another lap."
"You said that three laps ago."
"Because I didn't want to do those laps either."
My mother somehow kept walking beside me without looking even remotely tired. Meanwhile, I was fairly certain my legs had stopped functioning several minutes earlier.
"Just a little further," She laughed.
I still remembered the sound of her bright and warm smile.
When I eventually collapsed onto the grass and declared myself officially deceased, she hadn't scolded me or ordered me back onto my feet. Instead, she had simply sat beside me and handed over a bottle of water.
Then she ruffled my hair.
"You're doing well, Billion."
At the time, those words had meant more to me than I was willing to admit. A quiet smile found its way onto my face.
There had been countless moments like that growing up.
Not grand moments or life-changing revelations. Just ordinary pieces of life.
