“Mum, you left the light on all night again!” James said irritably as he walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, I mustve dozed off, love Was watching telly and didnt realise,” the woman replied with a tired smile.
“At your age, you should be resting, not staying up all night watching telly!”
His mother just smiled quietly, not answering. She pulled her dressing gown tighter, hiding how the cold made her shiver.
James lived in the same town but rarely visitedonly “when he found the time.”
“Brought you some fruit and your blood pressure meds,” he said briskly.
“Thank you, love. God bless you,” she whispered.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he pulled away.
“Got to dashwork meeting. Ill ring you next week.”
“Alright, darling. Take care,” she murmured.
After he left, she stood by the window a long while, watching him disappear around the corner. She placed a hand over her heart and whispered,
“Take care because I wont be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman dropped something into the rusty old letterbox.
Margaret slowly walked to the gate and pulled out an envelope marked:
“For my son James, when Im gone.”
She sat at the table and began writing with trembling hands:
“My dearest,
If youre reading this, I never got to say everything in my heart.
Know thismothers dont really die. They just hide inside their childrens hearts, so it wont hurt as much.”
She set the pen down, staring at an old photolittle Jamie with scraped knees.
“Remember, love, when you fell out of that tree and said youd never climb again?
I taught you how to get back up.
Now I want you to rise againnot with your body, but with your soul.”
She wiped her tears, slipped the letter into the envelope, and wrote on it:
“Leave at the gate on the day Im gone.”
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
“Mr. James? This is the nurse from the hospital Your mum passed last night.”
He closed his eyes in silence.
When he got home, the air smelled of lavender and stillness. Her favourite teacup sat on the table, the wall clock long stopped.
In the letterbox was an envelope with his name.
His hands shook as he opened it. Her handwriting.
“Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the wardrobe is your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells of childhood.”
James broke down.
Every word struck deeper than any scolding ever could.
“Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
Mothers survive on even the smallest crumbs of their childrens attention.
You rarely called, but every call was a celebration.
I dont want you to suffer. I want you to rememberI was always proud of you.”
At the end, it said:
“When you feel cold, put your hand on your chest.
That warmth? Thats my heart, still beating inside you.”
He sank to his knees, clutching the letter.
“Mum why didnt I come more often?”
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep right there on the floor.
When he woke, sunlight peeked through the old curtains.
He wandered the house, touching teacups, photographs, her dressing gown still draped over a chair.
On the fridge, a note:
“Jamie, Ive made shepherds pie and put it in the freezer. Knew youd forget to eat again.”
He wept once more.
Days passed, but peace didnt come.
He went to work but his mind kept drifting back to the house with yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he couldnt take ithe went back.
He opened the window, and birdsong flooded in.
The postman walked up the path.
“Afternoon, Mr. James. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mum left another letter. Said to give it to you when you came back.”
He opened the envelope. Her familiar scrawl:
“Love,
If youre here, you mustve missed me.
This house isnt just an inheritanceits a living memory.
Put flowers in the window. Make a cuppa.
And dont leave the light on just for youleave it for me too. Maybe Ill see it from up here.”
He smiled through tears.
“Mum the light will stay on every night.”
He stepped outside and looked up at the sky.
In the clouds, he almost saw hera faint silhouette in her floral dressing gown.
“You taught me how to live, Mum Now teach me how to live without you.”
Years passed.
The house stayed alive.
James visited oftenwatering flowers, fixing the fence, always making tea for two.
One day, he brought his little boy.
“Your nan lived here,” he said.
“Where is she now, Dad?”
“Up there. But she can hear us.”
The boy looked up and waved.
“Nan! I love you!”
James smiled through tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he couldve sworn he heard her:
“I love you too. Both of you.”
Because mothers never really leave.
They live onin the way you smile, the way you get back up, the way you tell your children “I love you.”
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home. James folded the letter gently and placed it back in the envelope, smoothing his hand over the worn paper.
He walked to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set two cups on the tableone blue, one white.
As he lit the stove, he whispered, “Morning, Mum. Im here.”
And somewhere beyond the sky, her smile answered.
