Mom.
I sank onto the floor and pressed the book against my chest as the room tilted slightly. Beneath it lay an unsealed envelope, and clipped to the front was a smaller note.
“For her birthday,” it read. “Don’t back out this time.”
My birthday was five days away.
I opened the letter.
“I see you sitting at the kitchen table some nights, sorting through bills, thinking no one notices,” it began. “I know you’re scared of growing old alone — of ending up somewhere quiet and forgotten, with no one left to visit.”
My vision blurred, but I kept reading.
“You gave up everything to take care of Dad when he was sick. You never complained. Not once. You didn’t have to love him the way you did. And you didn’t have to love me at all. But you did.”
My chest felt tight.
“So wherever life takes me, whatever I become, there will always be space for you. You will always have a home with me. Not because you’re obligated — but because you’re my mom. The only one I’ve ever truly known. You’ll never be alone. I promise.”
That was when I broke.
For four years, he had been quietly preparing for my future. Saving for my safety. Planning to protect me. And just five days before he meant to finally say it out loud, I had accused him of entitlement. I had locked him out of the house he believed was home.
For the first time since my husband’s death, I felt I had truly failed someone who was still alive.
That night, I unlocked the door.
When my stepson came back — guarded, confused — I didn’t bring up rent. I didn’t mention money at all.
I handed him the bag. The passbook. The letter.
And I said the words I should have said much sooner.
“I’m sorry.”
And for the first time in a very long while, the house didn’t feel empty anymore.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-life themes. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance to actual persons or situations is coincidental. All images are for illustrative purposes only.
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