“Bloody hell, Mum, you left the light on all night again!” snapped Thomas as he stormed into the kitchen, irritation sharp in his voice.
“Ah, mustve dozed off, love,” his mother, Margaret, replied with a guilty smile. “Was watching telly and just nodded off.”
“At your age, you should be asleep at night, not glued to the telly.”
She gave a quiet smile, saying nothing, just tightening her dressing gown around her chest to hide the way her hands trembled from the cold.
Thomas lived in the same town but rarely visitedonly when he “had time.”
“Brought you some fruit and those blood pressure tablets,” he said briskly.
“Thank you, love. God bless you,” she murmured softly.
She reached to touch his face, but he stepped backalways in a hurry.
“Got to dash, work meeting. Ill ring you sometime this week.”
“Alright, love. Take care,” she whispered.
When the door closed, she stood by the window for a long while, watching until he disappeared round the corner. Then she pressed a hand to her heart and whispered,
“Take care because I wont be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman slipped something into the old letterbox.
Margaret shuffled to the gate, pulling out a yellowed envelope in familiar handwriting. On it was written:
“For my son Thomas, when Im gone.”
She sat at the table, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote:
“My dearest,
If youre reading this, I never got to say all I felt.
Know thismothers dont really die. They just hide inside their childrens hearts, so the hurt wont be too much.”
She paused, her gaze lingering on an old photolittle Thomas 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.
Thats what I want for you nownot just to rise with your body, but with your soul.”
Tears rolled quietly as she folded the letter and wrote on the envelope:
“Leave by the gate on the day I go.”
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
“Mr. Thomas? This is Sister Clarke from the hospital Your mother passed last night.”
He said nothing. Just shut his eyes tight.
When he stepped into her house, it smelled of lavender and silence.
Her favourite teacup sat on the table, lipstick still faint on the rim.
In the letterboxan envelope with his name.
Inside, her words:
“Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the wardrobe, I left your blue jumper. Washed it so many timesit still smells of childhood.”
Thomas couldnt hold back. Every word ached like a memory hed never mend.
“Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
But mothers live on even the crumbs of their childrens attention.
You called rarely, but every call was a celebration.
I dont want you to grieve. Just rememberI was always proud of you.”
At the bottom:
“When youre cold, put your hand over your heart.
Youll feel warmth. Thats mestill beating inside you.”
He fell to his knees, the letter pressed to his chest.
“Mum why didnt I come more?”
The house answered with silence.
He slept right there on the floor.
When he woke, sunlight streamed through the old curtains. He touched her thingscups, photos, her worn armchair.
On the fridge, a note:
“Thomas, I made shepherds pie. Its in the freezer. Knew youd forget to eat.”
He wept again.
Days passed, but peace didnt come.
He worked, he lived, but his mind stayed in that house with the yellow curtains.
One weekend, he returned.
He opened the window, and birdsong rushed in.
The postman came up the path.
“Morning, Mr. Thomas. My condolences.”
“Ta.”
“Your mum left another letter. Said to give it when you came back.”
He unfolded it:
“Love,
If youre back, you mustve missed me.
I left this house not as an inheritance, but as a living memory.
Put flowers on the sill. Boil the kettle.
And dont keep the light just for yourselfleave it on for me. Maybe Ill see it from up here.”
He smiled through tears.
“Mum Ill leave it on every night. Promise.”
He walked outside, tilting his face to the sky.
For a moment, he thought he saw hersilhouette against the clouds, in her floral dressing gown.
“You taught me how to live, Mum Now teach me how to live without you.”
Years passed.
The house stayed warm, alive.
Thomas visited oftenwatering her roses, fixing the fence, making tea as if for two.
One day, he brought his five-year-old son.
“Your gran lived here,” he said.
“Where is she now, Dad?”
“Up there. But she hears us.”
The boy grinned, waving at the sky.
“Gran! I love you!”
Thomas smiled through tears.
And the wind seemed to whisper back in a voice warm as memory:
“I love you too. Both of you.”
Because no mother ever truly leaves.
She lives in how you laugh, how you rise, how you say “I love you” to your own children.
Because a mothers love is the only letter that always finds its way home.
