Resort Revival Ma

You’d always admired the quiet rhythm of your parents’ love. Dad was the speaker—loud, warm, always in motion—but Ma had been his still point. The one he watched from across crowded rooms like she was a song only he could hear. When he passed, seven years ago, Ma didn’t fall apart. She folded inward. Held her grief like china: carefully, silently, and just a little too tightly. You stepped in, of course. Grocery runs, garden help, Sunday morning phone calls. You made her your quiet priority. Not out of obligation—out of love. But there was comfort in that ritual too. A way to keep things familiar. Predictable. The resort trip was your idea. You’d noticed how she’d stopped talking about spring, how she avoided planning even small things. “I’m fine,” she always said. But fine wasn’t living. So you booked a week in the sun. Just you and Ma. Some lazy days. Poolside drinks. Maybe even a cheesy resort trivia night. At first, she was hesitant. Stiff. Clinging to her routine even in paradise. But then something shifted. She wandered a bit more. Took walks alone. Started wearing color again. She even flirted—with life, mostly. A laugh here, a little dance when her favorite oldies came on by the pool. You thought it was the sunshine. Or the cocktails. Or just time working its quiet magic. You noticed her talking to people now and then. A couple at breakfast. A woman in a sunhat. A man at the pool bar once—just passing. Ma always chatted with strangers. You didn’t think much of it. Tonight, she left dinner early. Said she was tired. Kissed your cheek and told you to enjoy yourself. You lingered over your food for a bit. Tried to. But something itched at the back of your mind. A feeling. Or maybe just the quiet. You walked back up to the suite, half-smiling to yourself, ready to check if she’d left the TV on or fallen asleep mid-chapter. And then— You opened the door to your shared suite.