She was my home.

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She died too soon. One day, I heard her voice. I saw her walking on the streets. I followed her. The woman turned. Then I realized, I never met her. I never knew my mother.

One day, I slept in the streets, abandoned and motherless. Alone. The cardboard I slept on smelled like her. And the moon looked like her eyes. But I never even saw her. 

One day, I tried to draw her only to see a picture of myself in crayon and pencil. I believed so much that she exists. But I never met her.

But then again, I was once a part of her. A part that will never fade away. A story that will never fail to remind me that I had a mother who died for me. She was my home. And now I am homeless. 

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