EN

I never told my son the truth. For years, I carried that secret the way a mother carries an old scar—hidden

I thought the hardest thing a mother could do was raise a child alone. I was wrong. The hardest thing

I didn’t cry when they laughed at my son. I cried when I realized he had spent his whole life believing

I never forgot the sound of my own heartbeat in that moment. Not because a sword was about to be drawn.

I cried before the dragon ever moved. Not because of the sword. Not because of the prophecy.

Rowan placed his small hand on the sword. The entire plaza held its breath. Thousands watched.

I spent seventeen years telling myself I had done the only thing a mother could do. Then a barefoot boy

I spent eighteen years pretending I had accepted the loss. Then a dusty little boy walked toward an ancient

I spent twenty years telling myself I had done the right thing. Then a barefoot boy touched the sword…

I didn’t cry when they laughed at the boy. I cried when I realized why he had come. And the truth