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Here is a story from this week's issue...
Mom’s Quiet Spot
Tucked behind the laundry room and just past the chaos of everyday life was Mom’s quiet spot—an old armchair by the window, a chipped mug always close by, and a worn-out book she never quite finished.
No one was banned, but everyone knew—when Mom was there, you tiptoed.
That corner wasn’t about escaping us.
It was about finding herself.
She’d sit for ten minutes, maybe twenty, soaking in the golden afternoon light, breathing like she finally remembered she had lungs.
Sometimes she’d write in her notebook, just scribbles.
Other times she’d simply stare out the window like the trees were whispering secrets just to her.
We used to tease her: “What do you even do in your quiet spot?”
She’d smile that tired-but-happy smile and say, “I remember who I am.”
And somehow, after just a little while there… she always came back to us softer, steadier, stronger.
Do you have a “Quiet Spot” that you go to?
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