30/12/2025
“Mom, you left the light on all night again!” Alex shouted as he walked into the kitchen, slightly annoyed.
— “Oh… I fell asleep, my son. I was watching a series and sleep got the better of me,” she replied with a tired smile.
— “At your age, you should be resting, not staying up all night.”
The mother smiled gently without saying a word.
She pulled her robe tighter around her body so the slight shiver from the cold wouldn’t show.
Alex lived in the same city, but he visited her rarely — only when he “had time.”
— “I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure medicine,” he said hurriedly.
— “Thank you, my son. May God bless you,” she whispered.
She tried to caress his face, but he gently pulled away.
— “I have to go, I have a work meeting. I’ll call you during the week.”
— “Alright, sweetheart. Take care,” she said softly.
When the door closed, the woman stood by the window, watching her son until he disappeared around the corner.
She placed a hand over her heart and murmured:
— “Take care, my child… I won’t be here much longer.”
The next day, the mailman left something in the old, rusty mailbox.
María slowly walked to the door and took out a yellowed envelope.
Written on it were the words:
“For my son Alex, when I am no longer here.”
She sat at the table and began to write with trembling hands:
“My dear one,
if you are reading this, it’s because I no longer had time to tell you everything that lived in my heart.
Mothers never truly die. They simply hide inside their children’s hearts, so it hurts a little less.”
She set down the pen and looked at an old photograph — little Alex, scraped knees and a mischievous smile.
“Do you remember, my son, when you fell from the tree and said you’d never climb again?
I taught you how to get back up.
Now I want you to do it once more — not for your body, but for your soul.”
She wiped away a tear, slipped the letter into the envelope, and wrote on it:
“Leave at the door on the day I go.”
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
— “Mr. Alex, this is the clinic nurse… Your mother passed away last night.”
Alex closed his eyes.
He said nothing.
When he arrived at the house, everything smelled of lavender and silence.
Her favorite cup was on the table, and in the mailbox, an envelope with his name.
He opened it with trembling hands. It was her handwriting.
“Don’t cry, my son. Tears don’t repair what has already broken.
In the closet, I left your blue sweater. I washed it many times — it still smells like childhood.”
Alex began to cry.
Every word pierced his soul like a memory that cannot be erased.
“Don’t blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
But mothers live even on the crumbs of attention from their children.
You called me rarely, but every call was a celebration for me.
I don’t want you to suffer. I only want you to remember:
I was always proud of you.”
At the end, it read:
“When you feel cold, place your hand on your chest.
You will feel warmth — it’s my heart, still beating for you.”
He fell to his knees, pressing the letter against his chest.
— “Mom… why didn’t I spend more time with you?”
The house remained silent.
He fell asleep on the floor.
In the morning, sunlight filtered through the old curtains.
He walked through the house, touching the cups, the photos, the armchair where she used to sit.
On the refrigerator was a note:
“Alex, I made cabbage rolls and put them in the freezer. I know you’re not eating well again.”
He cried again.
Days passed, but the calm never came.
He went to work, but his mind stayed there — in the house with the yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he returned.
He opened the window, and birdsong filled the room.
The mailman appeared at the door:
— “Good morning, Mr. Alex. My condolences.”
— “Thank you…”
— “Your mother left another letter for you. She told me to give it to you only when you came back here.”
Alex opened the envelope.
Once again, her handwriting.
“My son,
if you have returned, it’s because you missed me.
I left you this house not as an inheritance, but as a living memory.
Put flowers on the window. Make tea.
And don’t leave the light on only for yourself — leave it on for me too.
Maybe I can see it from above.”
He smiled through his tears.
— “Mom… I’ll leave the light on every night.”
He stepped into the yard and looked at the sky.
Among the clouds, he thought he saw her silhouette, wearing that white robe with flowers.
— “You taught me how to live, Mom… now teach me how to live without you.”
Years passed.
The house remained full of life.
Alex came often — watered the flowers, fixed the fence, made tea — always for two.
One day, he brought his five-year-old son.
— “Your grandmother lived here,” he said.
— “And where is she now, Dad?”
— “Up there. But she listens to us.”
The child looked up and waved:
— “Grandma! I love you!”
Alex smiled, his eyes filled with tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he believed he heard a warm, familiar voice:
“I know, my love. I love you too. Both of you.”
Because no mother ever truly disappears.
She stays — in your smile, in your strength, in every “I love you” you give to your children.
A mother’s love is the only letter that always reaches its destination.
Echoes of Insight
