My world shattered when I became a young widow with two little sons. The struggles were endless, but my love for them kept me going. In our shabby little house, surrounded by handmade toys, Brownie—a cardboard creation—sat proudly on a glass shelf. Despite its worn state, it was a symbol of the love that had shaped our lives.

One day, my sons, Oscar and Damon, now grown, came to visit. As they sat beside me, memories flooded back. I shared the story of how, after their father passed, I was left with nothing but debt. We lost our home and moved into this tiny place. Yet, despite the hardships, I was determined to give them a happy childhood.

I recounted how, with just shoeboxes, clothespins, and straws, I crafted Brownie for them one Christmas when they were 7 and 5. It wasn’t much, but it brought them endless joy. Over the years, I continued to make toys for them—wooden trains, puppet theaters, race car tracks—each one a testament to my love.

As we reminisced, Damon asked if I’d consider moving in with one of them, but I refused. This house, though humble, was filled with memories—of their first steps, laughter, and the love that had bound us together through the toughest times. I reminded them to cherish their roots, to remember that it wasn’t material things that mattered, but love.

“And love,” I said, my heart full, “is something we’ve always had in abundance.”