We’d met at family occasions and spoken politely. But now she wanted coffee alone. I almost declined.
I was too curious. She looked uneasy, twirling her ring on her finger at the café. “I wanted to tell you something,” she continued, looking behind her.
About Marco’s mom.”
Raised eyebrow. “She keeps talking about Elia’s green eyes, right? About how no family member has them?”
I nodded slowly.
“That’s not true.”
I blinked. My brother Nico had green eyes. Bright green.
Eight years old, he died. Hit by drunk driver. This shattered the family.”
Catching my breath.
I never heard of Nico. Not once. “She never mentions him.
Just like he never existed. Still, I remember. At six, I remember him well.
Actually, he resembled Elia.”
Not knowing what to say. Lina replied, flustered, “She acts like Elia’s green eyes are a curse,” although they may be a reminder. An unwanted one.”
Sitting, I was stunned.
Not simply the tragedy—but that her nastiness may have been born in anguish. It did not justify her actions. But that altered my view of her.
Marco heard me that night. He was quiet for ages. “She never told me about him,” he concluded.
Not once.”
He phoned her again. I don’t know what they discussed, but she asked us over the next weekend. Just three of us.
First time in weeks, she held Elia. Looked at her eyes intently. “You look like someone I once knew,” she whispered.
Then she broke. Full-blown crying. Marco and I were startled as she admitted everything.
How her youngest son has emerald eyes. She never recovered from losing him. “How could I look into your baby’s eyes and not see him?” she screamed.
It scared me. I felt haunted.”
She apologised again, this time with emotion. “I thought blaming you and convincing myself something was wrong would stop the memories.
But it didn’t.”
I clutched Elia, unsure of my feelings. Sympathy? Anger?
Forgiveness? Maybe all. Things changed after a few weeks.
She arrived with photos. Old scrapbooks. Picture of Nico.
Stories from her. Some joyous, some quiet. Elia always sat on her lap, chattering and caressing images with pudgy fingers.
It was odd. But healing. Never before had Marco and I chatted so thoroughly.
About grief. Generational silence. About how grief can make people harsh when they have no choice.
We named our second child Nico. Not to replace, but to remember. Linking past and present.
Born with brown eyes. Deep and warm. You know what?
Nobody spoke up. My mother-in-law learnt the hard way. Unchecked trauma spills into inappropriate places.
Now she volunteers at a grieving center. She meets with bereaved parents weekly. She rarely talks about her pain, but I know she’s made it meaningful.
I’ve learnt not to absorb others’ unsolved wounds. Truth frees you and brings unexpected healing, I’ve learnt. If others’ hostility makes you doubt your worth, don’t let it fester.
Look for truth. Stay strong. Allow the story behind the pain, even if you can’t cure it.
Green eyes can sometimes plain green. Sometimes they’re portals to a history no one wants to revisit—but maybe they should. Thanks for reading.
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