She taught Fiona to peel an onion without crying, to sing lullabies that echo through stone towers, to wait — not for a prince, but for the one who stays when the glamour fades.
She doesn’t tower like a ogre’s castle, nor wears a crown of swamp flowers. Her hands are soft from bandaging knees, from braiding hair that smells like rain and mud. mama de fiona
Here’s a short piece inspired by — written as a poetic tribute or character sketch. Mama de Fiona She taught Fiona to peel an onion without
Mama de Fiona knows the weight of a daughter who belongs to two worlds — one that sees green skin as a curse, one that sees it as a throne. mama de fiona