FICTION

I Know You Can

by Radmila Stojadinović

(Translated from Serbian by Jovana Stojadinović)

The sun set slowly that day, as if it too wanted a little more time with us. I sat on the bench in the yard, watching Mira water the roses. They were her favorites — the kind that smelled like childhood, summer evenings, and whispered bedtime stories.

“Mama, do you think she’ll make it?” she asked, without looking at me.

I paused. I knew what she meant. I could hear what she was hiding in her voice.

“She will, my love,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Do you know why? Because she’s stronger than she thinks.”

She looked at me then, with those big eyes where fear and hope wrestled.

That day, I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t say that it had returned, even though I had never wanted to see it again. That damned cancer never really left my body. After years of treatment, they said I was fine. Now they say it’s back. That I don’t have much time. That I’ll have to leave everything behind.

That night, while she slept, I stayed awake. I recorded her messages — one by one — as my heart cracked. I wanted to guide her through life even when I was gone. I wanted to make her believe in herself, to dream, to love. I wanted to make her live.

And then death took me.

Now, as I watch her, invisible, I feel a pain that is no longer mine — but hers.

She’s sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by a box of memories and the testament I left for her. Her hands tremble as she opens the letter.

“My dearest girl, I know it hurts. I know you’re angry. I know you think this is some final game of mine, but trust me — everything you’re about to go through is a part of you. A part of what you’ve always wanted, but were too scared to try. If you complete everything on these discs, you’ll find what truly belongs to you. But more than that — you’ll find out who you really are.”

I see her jaw tighten, how she angrily wipes away tears and puts the first disc into her laptop.

I appear on the screen — the way she remembers me. Smiling, but with eyes that knew what was coming.

“My sweet little girl. What lies ahead is a test of endurance. I know you’ll hate me for asking this of you, just as I know you’ll forgive me in the end, because you know how much I love you. Be angry. Scream. Break something if you have to — but please, don’t give up on my wishes. This is my last request.”

I see her hesitate, confused; her tears soaking her cheeks. She pauses the disc, then presses play again.

“The first task is simple, my love. Pick up a brush. Paint what you feel. Not for me — but for the little girl who once wanted to be a painter.”

I see her frown.

“What kind of madness is this, Mom?” she whispers. “I can’t paint right now.”

But still, her hand reaches for the canvas. The first stroke is uncertain, but then something shifts. The lines become bolder, the colors brighter. It’s as if every brushstroke helps her remember who she was — the little girl who drew princesses on the walls and got scolded in school. The paintings slowly grew heavier with meaning and better in form.

Day by day, disc by disc.

I wanted her to taste freedom and the sea. I wanted her to go alone. To conquer the fear she’d buried inside for years. I saw her resist, try to wriggle out of my challenges. I followed the flow of her thoughts, her friends convincing her to give it a shot. She bought a big hat and boarded a plane. My obedient girl. I knew she could do it. Tears ran down my cheeks as I watched her proudly unpack her things in the hotel room.

“I hope you’re happy now, Mom,” I heard her mutter, annoyed, her heart trembling with curiosity. And she enjoyed it — just like I had imagined. The water, the beach, the trips, the people she met. I watched her cheeks flush, heard her laugh out loud, and I was happy for her.

Her childhood dream was to glide across the ice. I took her once, but she never dared. We were always spectators. I believed she was old enough now to try. She watched the disc, cried, buried her head in the pillow, and said aloud: “Why, Mom? You know I’m terrified of skates — I’ll never get over it.”

But she did. The very next week. I was there the whole time — I think she felt me beside her, because she kept whispering to herself: “Just don’t let go, Mom. I don’t want to fall. I want you to be happy that I made it.”

And I didn’t let go. We flew together, clumsily at first, then more steadily. My girl proved once again — she can do anything.

Now we’re at the piano.

Another item from her life’s list. I can feel her resistance, her complaints — but she plays. Determined to fulfill every wish I left her. She’s tired, her fingers are sore, but she won’t give up. Her piano teacher encourages her, saying she has talent, and she begins to relax. I’m there too, in the shadows, breathing a little more earthly air, cheering her on. I know she’ll be a pianist one day… she just doesn’t know it yet.

She sings in a café, even though her voice trembles with nerves. She writes a poem — the one she once hid in a drawer, thinking it wasn’t good enough. Now, she can do anything. Life fills her lungs and I watch her in joy.

She hikes in the mountains, breathing in forgotten freedom. She travels to the place we always dreamed of visiting together. She skis and laughs, her heart brimming with life, and I’m overwhelmed with happiness. I wonder how she ever forgot the beauty life holds. I’m glad I was allowed to stay — to fulfill my final wish. My only wish: she be happy. Mira lights a candle for me and whispers softly: “See, Mom? I did it.”

And I’m there, beside her. Watching her rise from grief, becoming what I always hoped she’d be — herself.

And then, the final disc.

I see her hesitate. I feel her fear, her doubt.

“This is the last thing I’ll ask of you, my love,” I say through the screen. “Find true love. But don’t look for it in stories, in fear of being alone, or in memory. Look where your heart stirs, where you laugh like a child, where you can simply be you.”

She shakes her head.

“Mom… How can I find something that might not even exist?”

But I know.

I know she’ll meet him. I know she’ll give her heart a chance, and it won’t betray her.

And then he comes. Gently, quietly — just the way fate weaves true stories. At her art exhibit, he stands in front of one painting — the first one, imperfect, but most honest.

“This feels like… home,” he says to her.

And for the first time, she smiles without bitterness.

Days pass. Love grows. He sees in her what she tried to hide. He loves her the way I loved her — with a full, selfless heart.

And then, one day, as she stands in front of the mirror fixing her dress, her lips curling into a smile I haven’t seen in years, she whispers: “Mom… I think I’ve found him.”

And me? Now I can go.

She’s found what I always wanted for her.

“My dearest girl, love and be loved. That is my final gift.”

….

(Translated from SERBIAN by Jovana Stojadinović)

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