In it, she thanked me for being patient and gentle with her during her weakest moments.
She wrote that I had been her comfort, her steady presence, her sense of peace at the end.
But that wasn’t why her son was upset.
Inside the same box were receipts, notes, and old photographs—evidence that she had once planned to create a small trust for him.
She never completed the paperwork. Instead, she spent her final months trying to mend things between them, something he never realized until he read her written regrets.
I let him talk, let him unload all the emotions that came crashing down on him. Then I told him honestly: the letter wasn’t meant to hurt him.
It was simply her way of expressing gratitude in the only safe, quiet way she felt she could.
There was no hidden agenda, nothing to argue over, nothing to blame. Just the truth she wanted us both to know.
What she hoped, more than anything, was that he would understand how fast time moves—and how important it is to show up for the people we care about while we still have the chance.
