On the day I returned to my mother’s old house, snowflakes whispered secrets of the past as they gently blanketed the village in serene white. The house, standing in the white, was once filled with people I care about and people who care about me. It was my mother’s final wish for me to keep her cherished home and the strawberry fields thriving.

As I walked through the snow, the village was completely quiet. Ahead, the house rose up, its windows coated with a thick layer of frost that glimmered in the weak winter light. Stepping inside, I was immediately greeted by the rich aroma of old wood and a hint of lingering scent. Each room felt alive with echoes of past laughter and faint whispers of sorrow. In the living room, the faded sofa and the last glimmers of a dying fire brought back glimpses of holidays past, where my siblings and I unwrapped gifts, our eyes wide with excitement. But my memories and childhood are like the harsh, relentless snow of this winter, silently burying those brief moments of joy under a cold, suffocating blanket.

Every floorboard beneath my feet, though worn, had its place. But this one did not. As I tried to fit it back into position, a white envelope, dusted with grey, lay quietly hidden beneath.

"To my children." It is a note left by my mother…

The paper had yellowed with age, its edges so fragile they seemed as though they might crumble at a touch like her in her later years on her sickbed.

"My dearest child," she wrote, her handwriting shaky, "in this house, you will always find a part of me…" But where are you, mom? Come back… I realized that I would forever be ensnared in this unending snowfall, gentle and silent, devoid of any storm or sound. As a child, being adopted left me perpetually uneasy, always fearing I might be abandoned once more. My most familiar nightmare was sitting in the back of a strange car, watching the small, low house grow smaller and smaller through the rear window until it disappeared from my view. In those moments, I would wake up startled, heart racing. Fortunately, such a thing never happened in reality.

Through the years, my mother's consistent presence and soft affirmations slowly soothed those fears. She would pull me close, whisper stories as we watched the rain, and reassure me with a warmth that seeped into my once uncertain heart. I deeply cherished these tender moments, as if returning to her womb, a place of warmth, comfort, and protection, even though I had never truly been there.

Outside, the dormant strawberry fields lay nestled beneath a thick blanket of snow, quietly awaiting the gentle warmth of spring. As my fingers grazed the cold, frost-covered earth, a surge of memories enveloped me. There was my mother, her movements deliberate and tender as she cared for the plants. Amidst these rows, she had patiently demonstrated the art of nurturing, not just the strawberries but our bond as well. she cherished each strawberry like a proud parent watching her child. These moments gradually pieced back together my fractured sense of belonging, teaching me with every gentle interaction that I was deeply cherished and forever wanted.

As the seasons turned, my efforts brought the strawberry fields back to life, each berry shining with vibrancy. At the market, the locals could immediately tell. "These are Ellen’s berries, aren’t they? They are always the best, just like Ellen!” they'd comment, as their faces lighting up.

One chilly evening, as the glow from the fireplace filled the room with a cozy warmth, Mrs. Dogwoods, a neighbor, arrived with a steaming pot in her hands. We settled into the comfortable warmth, plates in our laps, as she began to share stories about my mother. Her words painted a picture of a life vibrantly lived, full of laughter and love. "Your mother," she said, her eyes sparkling with fondness as she took another bite, "she put her heart into these fields. Every strawberry that blooms here is like a little piece of her love." Her voice was soft, and in that moment, with the fire crackling and the aroma of the pot mingling with the memories, it felt as if my mother’s spirit was right there with us, smiling over our small gathering.

I realized, this task wasn't just about looking after the land or the house; it was about caring for the seeds of love my mother planted. Every time I tend the strawberries, I feel connected to her, reinforcing a bond that her passing couldn't sever. It’s as if her spirit guides my every move, keeping her legacy of love alive in every plant that flourishes.

Standing later by the window, watching another snowfall begin, I felt an overwhelming connection to everything my mother had left behind. The strawberries, the house, the memories; they all intertwined into a legacy of love, shaped by the complexities of our past. Here, in the quiet of the falling snow, I realized that my mother's love, like the seasons, was a constant force, nurturing me as I now nurtured the life she so dearly cherished.