The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan. Lyly sat on the floor, a small jacket clutched tightly in her arms. It was her mother’s jacket, still carrying a familiar scent that made Lyly feel safe. Her tiny fingers gripped the fabric as if letting go might make the warmth disappear.
Earlier that day, Lyly’s mother had been busy and away longer than usual. Lyly waited by the door, glancing up every time she heard a sound. When evening came and her mother still hadn’t returned, Lyly grew restless. She whimpered softly, searching the room for something that could comfort her. That was when she found the jacket resting on a chair.
Lyly pulled it down and wrapped herself in it, pressing her face against the sleeve. The jacket was too big for her small body, but that didn’t matter. To Lyly, it felt like being held. She rocked gently back and forth, her eyes growing heavy as she inhaled the familiar smell again and again.
Her mother returned quietly and stopped in the doorway. When she saw Lyly curled up on the floor, hugging the jacket like a lifeline, her heart clenched. Lyly’s eyes were already closed, her breathing slow and steady. She had fallen asleep waiting, comforted only by the jacket that reminded her of love and safety.
Her mother knelt down beside her, tears filling her eyes. She gently brushed Lyly’s hair and whispered an apology, even though Lyly couldn’t hear it. The sight was painful—so much trust, so much longing in such a small body. Lyly’s arms tightened around the jacket even in her sleep, afraid to let it go.
Carefully, her mother lifted Lyly into her arms, jacket and all. Lyly stirred slightly, then relaxed, pressing closer as if she finally knew her mother was there. The jacket slipped between them, no longer needed but still held.
That night, Lyly slept peacefully in her mother’s arms. But the image of her hugging that jacket stayed in her mother’s heart, a quiet reminder of how deeply love is felt—and how easily it can ache.
