When I was little, everything felt fun and interesting. Life was colorful, beautiful, and unique. We grew up in a village where people were judged based on their social status, wealth, family background, and ancestry. I remember being easy to love — even when you beat us, punished us severely for our mistakes, or scolded us harshly. No matter what, we always apologized. We always crawled back to you, seeking your attention, your love, your time, and your acceptance. You were our hero; you were everything. However, as time passed, I began to see other people and their families. They lived lives far better than the one I had known. I kept failing, again and again. I fell into depression, blaming everyone around me. At some point, I became a person without any feelings at all. I had no choice but to wake up to a reality I had never truly seen before. I once thought I loved my father more than my mother, but now I realize that was only a reflection of my longing — a longing for someone who was no longer there. It made me forget the pain and disappointment that remained unresolved. I questioned myself over and over: Why did you do this? Why did you say that? I told myself I would never forgive you. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, resentment, and anger. I was ungrateful — too blind to see how lucky I was to have a mother like you. I carried so many broken pieces within me, and I had to find my true self beneath the mess I had gathered over the years. It was hard — so hard — to accept everything. I always dreamed of a life that was simple and beautiful, where happiness lasted forever. But reality was different. It's painful to live in an environment where you want to forgive but the same wounds reopen again and again. One day, I found a quiet place to sit and think. I realized: everything in this world is created through love. Love is the reason we are alive. Yet the most important question is not whether we love — but how we love, and in what way we express that love. That determines who we become. Every time you punished us, you used to say, "I know you will hate me one day for this, but I have to do it for your own sake. There is no other way I can raise you without you being hurt by your own envy, your own fears." I thought about that — deeply. Was every embarrassment, every pain, every harsh word truly the only way to prevent me from ruining my future? Was punishment the only tool? Must it always be pain? And then I realized — the greatest fear I have is that one day, my own children might hate me. But you, my mother, were willing to risk losing my love, to risk living with my resentment, all for the hope that I might one day survive and thrive. I was overwhelmed with tears. I remembered everything I had once forgotten: how I loved you, and how you loved me. How we spent time together. How you held me in your hands and kissed me. Until that moment, I had only remembered what I wanted to remember — the pain. I convinced myself that you hated me, and I refused to allow myself to love you again. But that day, I found the courage to gather myself and go to your home. Of course, we argued. Of course, I cried — and so did you. But I said to myself: I cannot change her. I may not be able to fully accept her as she is. But at the very least, I can learn how to love her — not by punishing, not by hating, not by scolding. And for the first time, I said to you, "I love you — no matter what happened in the past or what will happen in the future. You are a part of me, and I will always love and admire you." You cried and hugged me. From that day forward, yes, there are still struggles. But it has become easier to face difficulties, easier to love beyond boundaries. As long as we are alive, we grow, we learn, we change — and most importantly, we love.

Once upon a time, in the divine realms beyond human comprehension, there were two angels in service to the Almighty. As imagined in human dreams and visions, these celestial beings were adorned in radiant garments, their presence a harmony of grace, beauty, and unwavering devotion. They resided in a heaven free from sorrow, pain, or hardship—a paradise that mortals could only long for. Their sacred duties were assigned by the Almighty Himself, and they carried them out with perfect obedience. But one day, a question stirred in the heart of one of the angels. “Lord,” he said, his voice trembling with reverence, “You created humans and granted them a status even higher than ours. Yet they stumble, again and again, falling into sin and error. Still, You forgive them, granting time and grace instead of swift punishment. Why?” The Almighty looked upon His angel and replied gently, “If you were human, you would err just as they do.” The angel, in his pride, could not accept this. “No, my Lord,” he said. “I would never fail You as they do.” So the Almighty gave him a chance—not as punishment, but as revelation. The angel was sent to Earth, stripped of all memories of his heavenly origin. He was reborn among humans, granted the role of a wise and respected judge, known for his fairness and virtue. Years passed. One day, a woman—young, breathtaking, and burdened—came seeking his help. From the moment their eyes met, he felt something stir deep within him, something new: love. She told him she could not be with him unless he did one thing for her—something against his principles. “This is forbidden,” he said, disturbed. “How can you ask this of me?” She leaned in, her voice soft and persuasive. “Everyone in this town does it. No one is punished. Why are you so afraid? Isn't love about sacrifice? About choosing someone else over yourself? I know it's wrong, but I also know you. You're kind, powerful, intelligent… Any woman would want to be with you. But unless you do this for me, I cannot be.” Blinded by love, he surrendered. For her, he crossed the line he swore he never would. Together, they built a life—filled with laughter, wealth, children, and joy. For a time, it all seemed like bliss. But as the years passed, the happiness they once knew began to fade like mist in the morning sun. The joy became routine. The love, quiet. Something felt missing, though neither could say what. Eventually, the man—once angel—fell gravely ill. He lay in bed, his body frail, but his mind adrift in memories. He thought of the woman he loved, the children they raised, the life they built. He had tasted joy, sorrow, pride, and failure. And through it all, he was grateful. Then, one quiet evening, a light descended from above—soft, golden, and otherworldly. It hovered above his home, casting a gentle circle on the ceiling, like a whisper from a forgotten realm. Slowly, the light entered his forehead, awakening everything he had once been. His memories returned—the heavens, the promise, the pride. Tears welled in his eyes. “I could not walk the path,” he whispered. “Not as I thought I would. I did not understand… until now.” He looked up, not with regret, but with a quiet awe, as if something larger than words had settled in his soul. And for the first time, perhaps, he saw humanity—not as flawed creatures—but as something else entirely. But what that was... he could not say. And maybe, neither can we.