This morning, little Matteo and Sofía walked hand in hand to the cemetery — a place that should never become familiar to children their age. 🥹💔
Their tiny backpacks bounced against their shoulders 🎒, holding nothing but notebooks, pencils… and a grief far heavier than anything inside.

When they reached their mother’s grave, they quietly placed their backpacks beside the stone as if they were setting them down at home after school.
Then, with trembling voices, they whispered:

“Mom… please wake up. Our teacher wants to talk to you.
He says we have no homework 📚 and no one to take care of us.
Please tell him you’re still with us. Please… we still need you.”

The wind didn’t answer. The earth stayed still.
So the children lifted their eyes to the sky, searching for a sign, a warmth, a miracle.
Because when you lose your mother, the world doesn’t just change — it loses its sun.
And without her, every day feels colder, every night feels longer, and every morning feels too quiet. ☀️❄️

Matteo tried to be brave, wiping Sofía’s tears even though his own were falling faster.
Sofía clutched a flower she picked on the way — a tiny gift for the woman who once braided her hair, kissed her forehead, and promised she’d never leave.
They don’t understand why love can stay while the person disappears.
They don’t understand why grown-ups call this “life,” when it feels so much like a world missing its brightest light.

But still, they sit there — side by side — talking to their mother as if she can hear every word.
Telling her about school, about the drawings they made, about the meals they don’t always finish because sadness tastes too heavy.They whisper secrets into the morning air, hoping it carries their voices somewhere she can reach.

Every day, they miss her warmth.
Every day, they try to be strong.
Every day, they learn a truth far too painful for their age:

A mother’s love never dies… but learning to live without her is the hardest lesson of all. 💛