“Mum, you left the light on all night again!” snapped James as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Oh, I mustve dozed off, love Got caught up in my show,” she replied with a weary smile.
“At your age, you should be resting, not staying up all night telly-watching!”
His mother said nothing, just smiled faintly. She tightened her dressing gown around herself, hiding the way her hands trembled from the cold.
James lived in the same town but visited rarelyonly “when he had the time.”
“I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure meds,” he said briskly.
“Thank you, love. God bless you,” she whispered.
She reached out to touch his cheek, but he pulled away.
“Gotta dashwork meeting. Ill ring you next week.”
“Alright, darling. Take care,” she murmured.
When he left, she stood by the window a long while, watching him disappear round the corner. She pressed a hand to her chest and whispered,
“Take care because I wont be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman dropped something into the rusted letterbox.
Margaret shuffled to the gate and pulled out an envelope addressed:
*”For my son James, when Im gone.”*
She sat at the table, her unsteady hand tracing words onto paper:
*”My dearest,*
*If youre reading this, I never got to say all I carried in my heart.*
*Know thismothers dont die. They just tuck themselves into their childrens hearts so the hurt wont linger.”*
She set down the pen, eyes drifting to an old photolittle Jamie with skinned knees.
*”Remember when you fell out of that oak tree and swore youd never climb again?*
*I taught you how to get back up.*
*Now I want you to risenot with your legs, but with your soul.”*
She wiped her tears, sealed the letter, and scribbled on the envelope:
*”Leave by the gate the day I pass.”*
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
“Mr. James? This is Sister Clarke from the hospital Your mum passed last night.”
He closed his eyes in silence.
When he entered her house, the air smelled of lavender and stillness. Her favourite teacup sat on the table; the old clock on the wall had stopped long ago.
In the letterbox was an envelope with his name.
His hands shook as he unfolded ither handwriting, unmistakable.
*”Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.*
*In the wardrobe, your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells of childhood.”*
James broke. Every word struck deeper than any reproach.
*”Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.*
*Mothers live on crumbs of their childrens time.*
*You rarely called, but every ring was a gift.*
*I dont want your grief. I want you to remember*
*I was proud of you.”*
At the bottom:
*”When youre cold, press your hand to your chest.*
*That warmth? My heart still beats in yours.”*
He sank to his knees, clutching the letter.
“Mum why didnt I visit more?”
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep right there on the floor.
At dawn, sunlight seeped through the lace curtains. He wandered the rooms, touching teacups, photographs, her dressing gown draped over a chair.
On the fridge, a note:
*”Jamiemade shepherds pie. Its in the freezer. Knew youd forget to eat.”*
He wept again.
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 bear ithe returned.
He pushed open the window, and birdsong spilled inside.
The postman stepped into the garden.
“Afternoon, Mr. James. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mum left another letter. Said to give it when you came back.”
He tore it openthat same familiar script:
*”Love,*
*If youre here, you mustve missed me.*
*This house isnt just an inheritanceits a living memory.*
*Put flowers in the window. Brew a cuppa.*
*And dont keep the light just for yourselfleave it on for me. Maybe Ill see it from where I am.”*
He smiled through tears.
“Mum itll stay on every night.”
He stepped outside, gazing at the sky.
In the clouds, he swore he saw hera faint outline in her floral dressing gown.
“You taught me how to live, Mum now teach me how to live without you.”
Years later, the house stayed alive.
James visited oftenwatered the roses, fixed the fence, boiled the kettlealways for two.
One day, he brought his little boy.
“Your grandma lived here,” he said.
“Where is she now, Dad?”
“Up there. But she hears us.”
The child waved at the sky.
“Granny! I love you!”
James smiled, tears in his eyes.
And in the whisper of the wind, he couldve sworn he heard her reply:
*”I love you too. Both of you.”*
Because mothers never truly leave.
They remainin how you smile, how you rise after falling, how you say “I love you” to your own children.
A mothers love is a letter that never gets lost in the post.
