The Coat That Held a Lifetime of Love
My name is Jimmy, I’m thirty-six, and for most of my life, I was embarrassed by a coat.
Charcoal gray wool. Thinning at the elbows. Pilled cuffs. Two mismatched buttons my mom had sewn on years apart. It looked tired.
At fourteen, I made her drop me a block away from school so no one would see her in it. She just smiled and said, “It keeps the cold out, baby. That’s all that matters.”
I promised myself I’d buy her something better. Years later, my first paycheck as an architect bought her a cashmere trench—elegant, expensive, “you’ve made it” kind of coat. She thanked me, hugged me tight… and wore her old coat to work the very next day.
Mom ran a flower shop in the mall. She loved flowers for their quiet beauty. We argued about that coat for years.
“Mom, we’re not poor anymore. Please. Just throw it away.”
Her look broke me. “I know, baby. But I can’t.”
She never explained why.
She wore that coat until she died unexpectedly at sixty, one freezing Tuesday in February. After the funeral, I went to pack her apartment. Everything felt smaller, quieter—until my eyes landed on the coat, still hanging by the door.
I picked it up, ready to toss it, but it felt heavier than it should. My hand brushed the lining, and I discovered deep inside pockets she had sewn herself. They were full—thirty thick envelopes, rubber-banded together, each numbered in her handwriting.
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