MOTHER — Such a Simple Word, Isn't It?

Not every family story is a fairy tale.

Not every Christmas is filled with joy and laughter.

This is the story of my mother—a woman who accomplished the impossible.

A woman who faced addiction, betrayal, and heartbreak, yet never stopped fighting.

This story is not only about her.

It is about every mother who stands unwavering as the pillar of her family, even while her own world is falling apart.

They were young and deeply in love.

My mother had beautiful blonde hair and deep eyes that could melt even the hardest heart.

My father was handsome, energetic, full of ambition and ideas.

My mother and father.

Their love seemed as though it had been lifted from the pages of a novel—intense, passionate, and untamed.

They married and together bought a small apartment, which my father furnished with his own hands.

Every corner of that home breathed love and expectation.

They were young.

Full of hope.

Full of dreams.

Everything began so quietly that no one noticed.

My father helped my mother at her langoš stand, where they sold not only langoš but also homemade wine.

At first, it was only a glass or two during work to "quench his thirst."

Then it became a daily habit.

Wine was always there.

Always within reach.

Always waiting for him.

The more he helped, the more he drank.

At first only during the long evenings.

Later during the day as well...

"just to get going."

"Just one glass to calm my nerves," he would say whenever my mother looked at him with concern.

At first, she didn't think much of it.

She believed nothing serious was happening.

She knew the work was exhausting.

She knew they carried many responsibilities.

She convinced herself it was only a phase.

That it would pass.

But my father began to change.

He became more irritable.

More distant.

He drank in secret whenever he thought no one was watching.

When there was no wine, he became restless.

Nervous.

Quick to anger.

My mother tried to hold everything together.

She ran the food stand.

She cared for our home.

She cared for us, her children.

Little by little, however, my father stopped being present—

both physically and emotionally.

He came home late.

Sometimes he didn't come home at all.

I still remember one night when my sister and I heard a loud argument.

My mother was shouting.

My father remained silent.

My mother was crying.

My father remained silent.

Back then we didn't fully understand what was happening.

We only wished that whatever this was...

it would finally end.

"I can't do this anymore..."

I once heard her whisper late at night, believing we were asleep.

She was exhausted.

Broken.

Yet still filled with love and hope that something might change.

Our home grew colder with every passing day.

My father disappeared deeper and deeper into his addiction.

My mother knew that if she didn't make a difficult decision...

we would lose everything.

"Maybe this year we won't all be together for Christmas," she said quietly one evening as we sat around the table.

Her words tightened around my throat.

Christmas...

without my father?

Without our family together?

I couldn't understand it.

She saw the look in my eyes, even though I told her I thought I understood.

Tears shimmered in her eyes.

But she remained strong.

She knew she had no other choice.

Despite everything, my mother decided to make one final attempt.

She knew there was only one place in my father's heart that could still reach him—

the memory of his late sister, whom he had loved more than anyone else in the world.

"What would she say if she saw you like this?"

she asked him one quiet evening.

Those words reached him.

The very next day...

he agreed to enter treatment.

It wasn't easy.

His first attempts failed.

But my mother refused to give up.

She believed there was still hope.

When my father finally returned from treatment and slowly began living a normal life again, fate dealt my mother another devastating blow.

This time...

it was me.

I fell into gambling addiction.

I lost control of my own life.

My mother witnessed my collapse.

Night after night she stayed awake, waiting to hear whether I would come home.

She prayed that I would find my way back...

just as my father once had.

It was a freezing night shortly before Christmas when I finally decided to return home.

Somewhere deep inside, I felt that I still belonged there.

My mother welcomed me without reproach.

Without questions.

She embraced me so tightly that, for the first time in years, I felt safe.

Inside her embrace there were no lies.

No failures.

No defeats.

I was simply her son.

And she...

was simply my mother.

Today, both my father and I are different men.

And my mother is the true heroine who saved us—

not through one extraordinary act,

but through thousands of small acts of love, patience, forgiveness, and unwavering faith.

This book is dedicated to her. ❤️

To my mother—the greatest woman in my life.

– JK –