"Honey, wake up."
I jolted awake, startled by the sudden voice. My heart pounded as I looked around, only to see Ava standing beside me, an apologetic look on her face.
"I'm sorry—did I scare you?" she asked softly.
Realizing it was just her, I shook my head. "No, you didn't, Mom."
The moment the word Mom left my lips, her face lit up with pure joy. A tear slipped down her cheek as she pulled me into a tight embrace, so tight it almost hurt. She smelled faintly of jasmine, sweet and calming. After a while, she finally let go, her face glowing with happiness.
Her eyes were full of compassion gentle, loving, and maternal. I couldn't help but smile back. Warmth flooded my chest. So, this is what it feels like to have a mother…
My own mother had died when I was young, so I never knew what that love felt like. But if I had to guess, it must be like this—warm, safe, and comforting. For the first time, I envied those who still had their parents, people who got to feel this kind of love every day.
Some are born unlucky, like me. But right now, for once, I felt lucky too. I thought The Walking Dead world would bring only suffering, but I hadn't realized that even suffering could feel this comforting.
From the bottom of my heart, I hoped Ava would smile more often. She looked beautiful when she did.
"Max, honey, can you… say mother again?" She asked, covering her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.
"Mom…" I whispered.
She broke down completely, hugging me again, sobbing softly against my shoulder. Her body trembled as she cried, but somehow, her embrace soothed my restless heart. The anger and grief I had carried for so long melted away in that moment. I never imagined a single word from me could bring someone so much happiness.
When she finally calmed down, she wiped away her tears and spoke in a shaky voice. "Do… do you remember me, little Max?"
I wanted so badly to say yes—to protect that hopeful look in her eyes—but I couldn't lie. My chest tightened as I lowered my gaze. "No… I don't remember. I'm sorry."
Her warm hand slid off my shoulder, leaving behind a strange emptiness. Quickly, I added, "Even if I don't remember you, I know I used to call you mother. When I think about what a mother should look like… your face comes to mind."
I prayed silently that my small lie would bring her some comfort.
"Look at me, Honey," she said gently.
Reluctantly, I lifted my head. She was smiling, a soft, radiant smile that made my throat tighten. I didn't even know why I was getting so emotional. Maybe it was the grief over my grandfather's death, or the pain of betrayal from my ex. Maybe it was loneliness. Whatever it was, it didn't feel bad. It had been so long since I'd smiled sincerely.
She squeezed my hand and said tenderly, "Don't feel sorry, honey. I'm happy—happy that you still call me Mom. I will pray to God that your memory comes back soon."
Then, chuckling softly, she tapped her head. "Haha… I almost forgot why I came here! The food's ready. Come eat, sweetheart—your favorite: peanut butter and jelly with a sunny-side-up egg, just the way you like it."
Smiling, I nodded. That was all I could do.
"Now get up, you sleepyhead," she said playfully, patting my shoulder.
I tried to rise. "Max, slow down—you're still injured," she said quickly, her voice full of concern.
Even though I didn't really need help, I pretended for her sake. She slipped her arm under mine, supporting my weight as we made our way downstairs together. Her warmth beside me made the small, dark world outside feel just a little less frightening.
As I got closer to the dining table, the smell of food hit me—rich and savory, making my stomach growl before I even sat down. My father and Uncle Matthew were already there, sitting in the dim light of a single lantern. Its flickering glow danced across their tired faces, casting long shadows on the walls. The lantern's soft light felt like a small beacon of hope in the dark, cold house.
Three plates were set on the worn wooden table. Each held a small serving of bean and carrot soup, though there was clearly more water than vegetables. The portions looked too small for grown men. From the corner of my eye, I noticed two empty bean cans lying on the kitchen island. Even though the kitchen was dark, my eyes—sharper than ever —could make out every detail in the low light.
Ava guided me gently to a chair as my father raised his hand in greeting.
"How are you feeling, kid?" he asked with a warm smile.
"I'm feeling okay," I replied, returning it.
Ava went back to the kitchen to fetch my plate, but before my father could speak again, Matthew's slightly slurred voice cut in.
"That's good to hear, Max."
My father's smile faded. "Didn't I tell you to drink a little bit?" Irritation creeping into his tone.
Matthew looked away. "Brother, it was just a little. I'm fine, I swear."
He straightened up, trying to look sober, but my father's eyes narrowed. "You'd better be fine," he said firmly.
Before the tension could grow, Ava returned, carrying my plate.
"Here you go, honey—your food."
Finally, some food, I was getting hungry. This would be my first meal in The Walking Dead world.