Every afternoon after school, when Eunice and her friends walked home, they would see a ragged woman standing at the corner near the school gate.
Her hair was tangled, her face streaked with dust, her clothes torn and faded — yet her eyes glowed with something deep and sorrowful.
Each day, as the children passed, she smiled at Eunice and whispered:
— Eunice… my daughter… it’s me, your mother.
The words froze everyone in place.
Eunice’s friends exchanged looks of disbelief.
— What’s she saying? — one whispered. — Did she just call you her daughter?
Eunice forced a laugh, her cheeks burning.
— She’s crazy! My parents are alive and perfectly fine. Look at me — I even look like my dad! That woman’s just insane.
Her friends giggled, rolling their eyes, and walked on.
But the woman didn’t stop smiling. She just stood there, watching Eunice walk away — with eyes that didn’t look mad at all, but heartbreakingly human.
Eunice was ten — the only child of a wealthy couple who lived in a grand villa on the edge of town.
Her father was a businessman; her mother, a well-known art curator.
She had everything: fine clothes, a big school, a private room full of toys.
But when she begged her parents to let her walk home by herself “like the other kids,” things changed.
That was when the mad woman began appearing.
Every day.
Same spot.
Same words.
— Eunice… my child…
One afternoon, as they passed, her friends nudged her.
— Hey, she’s here again. Why does she only talk to you?
Eunice shrugged, pretending to be annoyed.
— I don’t know! Maybe she wants money. Or attention.
But inside, she felt uneasy.
There was something in the woman’s eyes — a pain that didn’t belong to madness.
One rainy day, when Eunice was walking home alone, the woman stepped closer.
Her voice trembled:
— Don’t be afraid, Eunice. I can prove it. I am your real mother.
Eunice froze, then shouted angrily:
— Stop saying that! You’re crazy! I have parents already — real ones! If you ever talk to me again, I’ll tell my mom, and she’ll have you arrested!
The woman flinched as though struck. Tears filled her eyes.
— I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you…
Eunice turned and ran home through the rain.
Behind her, the woman whispered,
— You’re starting to look just like her…
The next afternoon, the woman wasn’t there.
For the first time in months, the corner was empty.
Eunice’s friends cheered.
— Finally! She’s gone. Maybe she got locked up or something.
Eunice forced a smile, but she felt no relief.
Something inside her hurt — guilt, maybe.
She had always promised herself to be kind to everyone… yet her words had made someone cry.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
In her dreams, she heard a voice calling through the rain:
— Eunice… my child…
A few days later, while helping her mother clean the living room, Eunice noticed something odd.
Behind the large golden family photo on the wall, a brown envelope was taped to the back of the frame.
Her name was written on it: To Baby Eunice.
Curious, she opened it.
Inside was an old letter written in trembling handwriting:
“My dearest Eunice,
If you are reading this one day, please believe that I never abandoned you.
You were taken from me when you were barely a year old.
They told me I wasn’t worthy to raise you.
They told you I was dead.
But I have never stopped watching over you.
I am always near you — every single day.I love you more than my own life.
— Mom.”
Eunice felt the world spin around her.
At that very moment, her mother walked in.
— What are you holding? — she asked sharply.
Eunice tried to hide the letter, but her mother saw the panic in her eyes.
She grabbed the envelope, read just one line… and went pale.
Then, without a word, she tore the letter into pieces.
— Why did you do that?! — Eunice cried.
Her mother’s voice trembled.
— There are things you should never know, Eunice. Not now. Not ever.
She left the room, slamming the door.
The next day, Eunice went to school in silence.
The woman’s voice echoed in her mind.
“I can prove it… I am your real mother.”
When classes ended, Eunice stepped outside — and froze.
The road was full of police cars, flashing lights, and a crowd gathering near the familiar corner.
A passerby whispered:
— A homeless woman died there this morning. Hit by a car, poor thing.
Eunice’s heart stopped.
She pushed through the people.
A police officer raised a hand.
— Stay back, young lady.
Her voice shook.
— Please… may I see her? Was she always standing here… talking to a girl after school?
The officer frowned.
— Yes. She’s been here for months. Crazy, they said. But look what we found in her hand.
He held up a small silver locket, tarnished by dirt.
Inside was a faded photograph of a baby — chubby cheeks, bright eyes — with the name EUNICE written beneath.
The ground seemed to vanish under her feet.
Eunice collapsed in tears.
That night, the house was unnervingly quiet.
Her parents avoided looking at her.
From her room, Eunice heard them arguing behind closed doors.
— You told me it was over! — her mother hissed.
— How was I supposed to know she’d come back?!
— She had no right to see the child!
— She’s the real mother, Helen! You can’t erase that!
Eunice’s hand covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
Everything she’d known — every truth — cracked like glass.
Late that night, she slipped out into the garden.
The wind was cold; the moon hid behind clouds.
In her hand was the silver locket the police had returned to her.
She opened it, touched the tiny face inside, and whispered:
— I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was really you.
A soft breeze brushed her hair.
And for a brief moment, she could swear she heard a voice — faint, gentle, carried by the wind:
— I forgive you, my child. I always have.
Years passed.
Eunice grew into a quiet, thoughtful young woman.
Her family remained wealthy; her life appeared perfect again.
But she knew better — behind every portrait in that house lay secrets too heavy to speak.
Sometimes, she returned to that corner near the school — now cracked and overgrown with weeds.
She would place a small bouquet of lilies and a folded note:
“I still remember you, Mom.
They called you mad.
But you were the only one brave enough to tell me the truth.”
One evening, as she laid down the flowers, a little girl selling newspapers approached.
— Miss, are you the one who leaves flowers here every week?
— Yes, sweetheart. Why do you ask?
— Because yesterday, a lady came too. She was crying. She said… thank you for forgiving her.
Eunice froze.
— What did she look like?
— She wasn’t poor like the others. She wore a gray coat, had long hair… and drove a big car.
The child ran off before Eunice could ask more.
Eunice turned toward the long, winding road beyond the corner — where the headlights of a distant car disappeared into the mist.
A strange feeling swept over her — half fear, half hope.
Maybe the past wasn’t as buried as she thought.
A soft fragrance filled the air — jasmine — the same scent that used to linger around the mad woman when she smiled through her tears.
Eunice closed her eyes, holding the locket tightly in her palm.
And in the wind, she heard once more, faint but unmistakable:
“My daughter… I never left you.”
Epilogue
Was the mad woman truly dead?
Or had someone else — someone who knew too much — stood in her place that night?
No one ever found out.
Only Eunice knew that every time the wind whispered through the trees near that road,
it still called her name.
