“Do you like flowers?” my mother asks, her hands trembling as she reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out something delicate and frayed—an old paper flower, tattered and worn at the edges. “I saved this one. For someone special.”

My daughter nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty.”

Lyric steps forward before I can stop her, before I can break out of being mesmerized to think clearly, and gently takes the fragile paper bloom from my mother’s hand.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t move.

I just watch.

My mother smiles, something distant but peaceful flickering in her eyes. She touches a strand of my daughter’s hair like she’s touching something sacred. “Beautiful curls,” she murmurs. “Like an angel’s.”

The ache in my chest tightens, a mixture of grief and something impossibly tender.

She doesn’t know she’s looking at her granddaughter.

She doesn’t know she’s meeting a piece of me.

But maybe, in some small way, she does.

Maybe her heart recognizes what her mind can’t.

My throat burns and Hendrix squeezes my hand.

Then, just as quickly as the moment happened, it’s gone.

My mother’s gaze drifts again, lost, slipping back into whatever space exists beyond my reach. She hums softly, rocking again, eyes focused on things I can’t see.

I exhale slowly, kneeling beside my daughter, brushing my hand over her curls. “Come on, sweetheart. Say goodbye.”

She studies me before looking back at my mother. “Thank you for the flower.”

My mother doesn’t respond. Can’t. But as we walk away, I swallow over the lump in my throat, my free hand curling into a fist as I force myself to keep moving, to keep walking.

When we reach the car, Hendrix turns to me, her eyes full of understanding, full of knowing. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

Instead, she just steps forward, places her hand on my chest, and rests her forehead on my shoulder.

And just like that . . .

The pieces of my broken heart shift.

Not mended. Not fully whole.

But still beating.

Still here.

Still holding on to the people who matter most. The ones who have taught me time and again just how worthy of love I am.

I close my eyes, exhaling as I press a kiss to the top of Hendrix’s head, to my nine-month-old son’s, and then to my daughter’s curls as she leans against me, still holding on to that fragile paper flower.

Maybe my mother will forget this moment.

Maybe she’ll never truly know us.

But tonight, for a breath in time, she saw her.

And for now, that’s enough.

Did you enjoy Jase and Hendrix in Sweet Surrender?

I hope so. I loved writing their story as much as the other members of BENT.