But something about that message tugged at me. Maybe it was the word “important.” Maybe it was the quiet tone behind her words. That night, I decided to send her a little money. I didn’t ask what it was for. She replied with a simple heart emoji and a message I can still see clearly: “Thank you, sweetheart.”
The next morning, she was gone. Peacefully, in her sleep.
A Discovery in Her Kitchen
On the table sat dozens of small, beautifully wrapped gift boxes. Each one had a golden ribbon tied neatly on top, and a little tag with a name written in her familiar handwriting. My name was there. So were my parents’, my cousins’, even my uncle’s — the one who hadn’t visited in years.
Curious and trembling, I opened mine. Inside was a tiny silver pendant, a black-and-white photo of us taken years ago, and a folded piece of paper. It was her handwriting again, gentle but firm.
“You were the only one who listened when I needed someone,” it said. “Don’t ever lose that kindness. It’s the rarest thing we can give.”
That’s when I realized what she had done.
