ooc.

HIIIII

ooc.

*goes MIA again* oops

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Shuri realized something her mother must have known all along—grief did not end. But neither did love.

“𝘜𝘴𝘶𝘬𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘬𝘶𝘣𝘩𝘪𝘺𝘰𝘻𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘢.” ❤️

Perhaps she couldn’t see her, feel her, hear her… but that didn’t mean her mama wasn’t by her side.

They say a mother laughs with her child, grieves with them, and protects them.

They say a mother’s love endures all. Even death.

‘There is something about losing a mother that is permanent and inexpressible—a wound that will never quite heal.’

But what had Ramonda left in her wake? Beautiful memories. A legacy that lived on in her country, her daughter, her grandchild. Her everlasting love as a guide.

beloved queen, and who had been loved by her fiercely, like daughters.

Okoye; good, loyal, strong Okoye. Her sister.

Nakia; a woman deserving praise herself on this special day. Her sister.

Shuri just needed to hear their voices.

𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴’𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁…

It was, wasn’t it?

her mama’s embrace, her mama’s arms keeping her close. The tears finally slowed, the hiccups subsided and she felt some of the weight lift.

A few taps of her kimoyo beads put her in contact first with Okoye, then with Nakia—two women whose lives had not gone untouched by their

𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴’𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁…

One good cry. That’s what she promised herself—and because Nakia swore that’s what was healthy, apparently. And so that’s what she did. Shuri cried. Loudly, openly.

And once she was done weeping, she let the quietness of the morning hold her. She imagined relaxing in

mattered and to gently scolded her when Shuri stayed in the lab too long.

This was a woman who would do anything for her people, her country, her family.

That was the woman she wanted to remember. That was the legacy she chose to carry and embrace.

and whose voice only softened for them. Her mother who raised both a king and a queen. Her mother who nurtured her own daughter’s innate ability to create.

Her precious mama, who listened to all the scientific gibberish Shuri tended to spew as if every single word

dwell on the way her mother had died, but on the way she had lived.

Her mother who laughed with her whole chest and who gave such tight hugs. Her mother who held herself with confidence and poise. Her mother whose eyes shimmered with delight when in the company of her family

it all. To let it move through her, not break her. Her mother had taught her to rise not only in spite of it, but because of it. Her mother never just spoke about resilience. She 𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙 it.

Today, though, she wouldn’t let sorrow define the memory of her mother. She wouldn’t

mother had been? There was still so much to learn from her.

𝗡𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻, 𝗻𝗼 𝗰𝗿𝘆.

Grief was the cost of love. And on days like this—Mother’s Day—that cost felt unbearably high.

But this pain was proof of her love. 𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭. Her mother had taught her to feel

mother’s and brother’s arms had been her solace.

Now, she held only herself.

𝗡𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻, 𝗻𝗼 𝗰𝗿𝘆.

Somewhere between memory and the morning’s silence, Shuri felt tears slip down her cheeks.

How could she carry this weight without the rest of her disintegrating? How could she ever be the woman her

The manner of it—the violence, the suddenness, the cruel silence afterward—it haunted her.

There were still nights when Shuri woke up gasping, crying, clawing at phantom arms holding her back. Reaching for someone who was no longer there.

After her baba passed, her

children. Everyone knew that. But when you believed you had all the time in the world… it hardly felt real. Not even a passing thought when so much was looming on the horizon.

Her mother’s death hadn’t just broken her. It had taken the shattered remains of her heart and ground them into dust.