Then one night, during a blackout, I plugged it into the one working outlet in the apartment. And just like that, it lit up—soft and steady, like it had been waiting for its big moment.

The painting was destined for something better than its current home, its faded colors no longer forgotten.

When I asked my mother why she kept it, she just shrugged. “It fits flowers,” she said. “What else does a vase need to do?” But I think we both knew that wasn’t it.

My dad wasn’t a writer. Not professionally. But every night, after we’d all gone to bed, he’d sit down with that typewriter and just… write.

As her daughter giggled, pouring imaginary tea, I realized how much that teacup set had come to mean. It wasn’t just a relic from our past—it was a symbol of love, family, and the small moments we carry with us through generations.