Please don’t think I forgot you — I could never. You were my comfort through every ache, every sleepless night. You gave me what no one else could — love without condition.
This cottage was my refuge, my peace. It’s where I came to write, to breathe, to remember who I was before the world became loud. Now it’s yours. I hope you’ll fill it with laughter, with warmth, with life.
Before you leave, go into the garden. There’s one more gift waiting for you.
With all my love,
Mom.
I pressed the letter to my chest, tears sliding down my cheeks. For the first time since her death, I felt her presence — calm, kind, and near.
The Garden Beneath the Oak
Outside, the air was cool and fragrant. The garden stretched behind the cottage, wild but beautiful — a mix of roses, lavender, and daisies swaying gently in the breeze.
At the far end stood an old oak tree, one my mother had mentioned often when she spoke of her “secret place.” Beneath it, half-hidden by roots and moss, was a small wooden chest.
Inside were things no amount of money could replace:
- Our family photo albums, filled with snapshots of birthdays, vacations, and quiet Sunday mornings.
- Her wedding ring, simple and worn from decades of love.
- And a deed — confirming that the cottage and the land around it were now legally mine.
It wasn’t just a house. It was her heart, preserved in wood and soil and sunlight.
What the Others Never Understood
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