“Mum, you left the light on all night again!” said Thomas irritably as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Oh, I must have dozed off, son I was watching telly and didnt notice,” the woman replied with a tired smile.
“At your age, you should be resting, not staying up all hours!”
His mother smiled faintly but said nothing. She pulled her dressing gown tighter to hide the shivers running through her.
Thomas lived in the same town but visited seldomonly “when he found the time.”
“I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure tablets,” he said briskly.
“Thank you, love. God bless you,” she whispered.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he leaned away.
“Ive got to dashmeeting for work. Ill ring you this week.”
“Alright, dear. Take care,” she murmured.
Once he had gone, she stood by the window a long while, watching his figure disappear around the corner. She pressed a hand to her heart and whispered,
“Take care for I shant be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman dropped something into the old, rusted letterbox.
Margaret shuffled to the gate and pulled out an envelope marked:
“For my son Thomas, when I am gone.”
She sat at the table and began to write with trembling hands:
“My dearest,
If you are reading this, then I never had the chance to say all that was in my heart.
Know thismothers never truly die. They hide themselves in their childrens hearts so the pain wont be too great.”
She set down the pen and gazed at an old photographyoung Tommy with skinned knees.
“Remember, love, when you fell from the apple tree and swore youd never climb again?
I taught you how to get up.
Now I want you to rise once morenot with your body, but with your soul.”
She wiped her tears, slipped the letter inside the envelope, and wrote upon it:
“Leave by the gate on the day I am gone.”
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
“Mr. Thomas, this is the nurse from the hospital Your mother passed last night.”
He closed his eyes in silence.
When he returned to her house, it smelled of lavender and stillness. Her favourite teacup sat on the table; the clock on the wall had long stopped ticking.
In the letterbox lay an envelope with his name.
He opened it with shaking hands. His mothers handwriting.
“Dont weep, my boy. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the cupboard is your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells of boyhood.”
Thomas could bear it no longer. Every word struck deeper than any rebuke.
“Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
And mothers live on even the smallest scraps of their childrens time.
You rang so seldom, but each call was a gift.
I dont want you to grieve. I want you to rememberI was proud of you.”
At the end, it read:
“When you feel cold, place your hand over your heart.
If you feel warmththats mine, still beating inside you.”
He sank to his knees, pressing the letter to his chest.
“Mum Mum, why did I come so rarely?”
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep right there on the floor.
When he awoke, sunlight crept through the faded curtains.
He wandered through the rooms, touching teacups, photographs, her dressing gown draped over a chair.
On the fridge was a note:
“Tommy, Ive made shepherds pie and left it in the freezer. I know youll forget to eat.”
He wept again.
Days passed, but peace did not come.
He went to work, but his thoughts always returned to the house with the yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he could bear it no longerhe went back.
He opened the window, and birdsong filled the room.
The postman stepped into the garden.
“Good day, Mr. Thomas. My condolences.”
“Thank you”
“Your mother left another letter. Asked me to give it when you returned.”
He opened the envelope. The same familiar hand:
“My son,
If youve come back, you must have missed me.
This house is yours nownot as inheritance, but as memory.
Put flowers in the window. Brew a pot of tea.
And dont leave the light on just for yourselfleave it for me. Perhaps Ill see it from beyond.”
He smiled through tears.
“Mum itll stay lit every night.”
He stepped into the garden and looked up at the sky.
In the clouds, he thought he saw a familiar figure in a white dressing gown, holding flowers.
“You taught me how to live, Mum now teach me how to live without you.”
Years passed.
The house remained alive.
Thomas visited oftenwatering the flowers, mending the fence, setting the kettlealways for two.
One day, he brought his little boy.
“Your grandmother lived here,” he said.
“Where is she now, Dad?”
“Up there, in the sky. But she can hear us.”
The child looked up and waved.
“Granny! I love you!”
Thomas smiled through his tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he thought he heard her voice:
“I love you too. Both of you.”
Because mothers never vanish.
They remainin the way you smile, in how you rise after falling, in the way you tell your own children “I love you.”
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home.
