“Mum, you left the light on all night again!” Thomas said irritably, walking into the kitchen.
“Oh, I mustve dozed off, love… Was watching telly and didnt even notice,” the woman replied with a tired smile.
“At your age, you should be resting, not staying up late with the telly on!”
His mother just smiled quietly and didnt answer, pulling her dressing gown tighter so he wouldnt see how much she was shivering from the cold.
Thomas lived in the same town but rarely visitedonly “when he found the time.”
“I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure pills,” he said quickly.
“Thank you, son. God bless you,” she whispered.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he pulled away.
“Gotta dashwork meeting. Ill call this week.”
“Alright, love. Take care,” she murmured.
After he left, she stood by the window a long while, watching him disappear around 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 rusty old letterbox.
Margaret slowly made her way to the gate and pulled out an envelope labeled:
“For my son Thomas, when Im gone.”
She sat at the table and began to write with trembling hands:
“My dearest,
If youre reading this, I never got to say all that was in my heart.
Just knowmums never really die. They just hide inside their childrens hearts so the hurt wont sting too much.”
She put down the pen and glanced at an old photolittle Tommy with scraped knees.
“Remember, love, when you fell out of that tree and swore youd never climb again?
I taught you how to get back up.
Now, I want you to rise againnot with your legs, 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. Thomas? This is Sister Davies from the hospital… Your mum passed last night.”
He closed his eyes in silence.
When he got home, the house smelled of lavender and quiet.
Her favourite cup sat on the table, the clock on the wall long stopped.
In the letterbox was an envelope with his name.
He opened it with shaky hands. His mothers handwriting.
“Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the cupboard is your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells like childhood.”
Thomas broke down.
Every word struck deeper than any scolding ever could.
“Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
Mothers live on even the crumbs of their childrens attention.
You called so rarely, but every ring was a celebration for me.
I dont want you to suffer. I want you to rememberI was always proud of you.”
At the bottom, shed written:
“When you feel cold, put your hand on your chest.
That warmth you feel? Thats my heart, still beating inside you.”
He sank to his knees, clutching the letter to him.
“Mum… Mum, why didnt I visit more?”
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, photos, her dressing gown still draped over the chair.
On the fridge was a note:
“Tommy, I made shepherds pie and left it in the freezer. I know youll forget to eat again.”
He cried all over.
Days passed, but peace didnt come.
He went to work but kept drifting back to the house with the yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he couldnt take ithe went back.
He opened the window, and birdsong rushed in.
The postman walked up the path:
“Good morning, Mr. Thomas. So sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you…”
“Your mum left another letter. Asked me to give it to you when you came back.”
He opened the envelope. That same familiar handwriting:
“My son,
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 yourselfleave it for me too. Maybe Ill see it from up there.”
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 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 stayed alive.
Thomas visited oftenwatering the plants, 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!”
Thomas smiled through tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he couldve sworn he heard her voice:
“I love you too. Both of you.”
Because mothers never truly leave.
They live onin the way you smile, the way you get back up, the way you tell your own children “I love you.”
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home. Thomas kept the porch light on every night, just as he promised.
When his son asked why, hed say, “So Nan can find her way back when she misses us.”
And on quiet evenings, with tea steaming in two cups, hed sit by the window, listening to the wind, feeling the warmth in his chest, and whisper, “Im getting better at this, Mum. Im learning to carry you. The light glowed softly through each night, a steady beacon in the dark.
Years folded into seasons, and Thomas grew older, but never alone.
One evening, he tucked his son into bed, who whispered, Dad, I dreamt Nan hugged me.
Thomas kissed his forehead. She did. She never stops.
Outside, the wind stilled, the porch light flickered gently, and for a moment, the air smelled of lavender and warm wool.
He returned to the window, sipped his tea, and smiled. I know, Mum. I feel you too.
