Strength on Bench Number Three

I used to think strength meant never breaking down. That resilience was about holding

everything together no matter what. Then I lost my mom, and I shattered completely.

For months, I couldn't even walk past her favorite bench in the park. Bench number three,

the one facing the pond where ducks gathered every morning. She'd sit there with her thermos

of tea, watching the sunrise like it was a private show just for her. One rainy Tuesday,

I finally sat down there. Soaked through, crying, feeling like I'd

never be whole again. That's when Eleanor appeared. This elderly woman with paint-stained

fingers and the wildest silver hair I'd ever seen. She didn't ask if I was okay.