My mother was a deeply flawed individual, battling demons both within and without. She rarely spoke of her struggles, shrouding her experiences in silence, except when it came to her regrets. Those, she couldn’t hide. She often wished she could have done better, and though her words were few, I could feel the weight of her pain—an ache buried so deeply within her that it became a part of who she was.
After her death, I inherited a sizeable estate—a wealth of possessions and treasures she left behind. Yet, among it all, there is one thing I hold closest to my heart: her diary. It was a window into her soul, revealing everything she could never bring herself to say aloud. Every sin she carried, every regret that weighed upon her—it was all there, raw and unvarnished. But her diary held more than sorrow. It spoke of her triumphs, her moments of love, her dreams of a better world, and the fears that kept her awake at night. Through her words, I discovered the woman she was, in all her complexity and humanity.
Among the many entries in her diary, one stood out above the rest: the story of her first wife, Maeda. She wrote about how Maeda changed over time, how the warmth between them faded, replaced by growing distance. They fought often, their love unraveling like threads worn thin. Maeda’s transformation was slow but unrelenting, culminating in tyranny after the battle for Ravnica. It wasn’t immediate, but a gradual descent, one that left deep scars.
She confessed her resentments toward Maeda—for introducing her to the drugs that nearly destroyed her. But what struck me most was her account of their final confrontation. She wrote about the battle where she had to face Maeda, to end her tyranny. The tear stains on the pages spoke volumes, each mark a testament to the torment she endured. It must have been unbearable, having to raise her hand against someone she once loved so deeply.
She wrote, too, about how that moment broke her, how she no longer wanted to bear the weight of being an angel. And how, in her anguish, Sune granted her wish for mortality. I can’t even begin to fathom the pain she carried, but reading her words, raw and unfiltered, somehow brought me closer to her. It was as if, in her vulnerability, she reached across time to show me the depth of her humanity.
My mother meant everything to me. She loved with a depth that left an indelible mark on everyone around her, and it was evident in the way she raised my sisters and me. I believe, in her heart, she saw us as her redemption—a testament to something she had done right amidst all her struggles. That love shaped me, guiding my thoughts about the kind of life I want to lead, the path I want to tread. I can only hope that I’ll make her proud.
When the time came to carry her soul to Sune, I felt her warmth even then, like a final embrace that lingered. Though I know I can see her again in Arborea, the thought of her absence here, in this life, still hurts. But I find solace in knowing she watches over me, proud of the person I’ve become. Today, as I walk my own path, I carry her love and lessons with me, and that gives me strength.