The day after the funeral, I expected quiet. Grief usually settles like dust—slow, heavy, silent. Instead, chaos found me before breakfast. My phone rang with such intensity that I knew before answering something had cracked open overnight. On the other end was her son, his voice a mix of anger, confusion, and something softer buried beneath—fear, maybe. He kept repeating, “Why would she do this? Why would she write you?”
It took a moment before I understood what he meant. While sorting through the last of her things, he had found a letter tucked inside an old keepsake box she always kept near her bedside. It wasn’t addressed to him. It wasn’t addressed to the family. It had my name written in her familiar, looping script.
I hadn’t expected anything from her—not gifts, not money, not recognition. I was simply someone who had been there in the last stretch of her life. Someone who helped her with appointments, meals, and the long, uncomfortable afternoons when her body felt heavy, and her mind felt even heavier. I was there because I wanted to be. Not for any reward. Not for thanks.
Still, hearing that she’d left something behind for me sent a strange chill through my chest.
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