My dear children… Tomorrow you will come to visit me. It’s my milestone birthday, a supposed celebration. You’ll arrive with bouquets, a cake, and polite smiles. And I’ll greet you with wrinkles on my face and a tremor in my hands, because with each passing year, everything grows harder… You’ll see how I’m aging. And all I ask is that you be patient. Try to understand the stage of life I’m moving through.
If your father or I start repeating a story you’ve heard before—last year, last month, or even an hour ago—don’t interrupt. Don’t frown or say impatiently, “Mum, you’ve already told us this.” Just… listen. The way I listened when you were little, begging me to read the same bedtime story ten times over until you fell asleep with the book clutched in your arms.
When I say I don’t want to shower, don’t scold me, don’t act embarrassed, don’t blame. Just remember how I gently urged you to wash up after school or playing outside, when you’d stamp your feet and whine about being tired. I never got cross. I’d rub your back, whisper “just a little longer,” run the bath, and sing to you.
If I struggle to work your phone or telly, don’t roll your eyes. I wasn’t born holding gadgets. I learned everything from scratch—just as I once taught you to hold a spoon, button your shirt, and tie your laces. Back then, I guided you without frustration. Now, do the same for me. Without annoyance. Without mockery.
As time passes, you’ll notice me falter—losing track of words, forgetting thoughts. Yes, I’m growing old. Yes, I tire easily. Please, don’t point it out. Don’t say, “You’ve forgotten again?” I already know, and it frightens me. Just give me time to remember. Just stay close.
I don’t want to be a burden. I want to be the same person who once held your hand as you took your first steps. And now that my legs grow unsteady, just offer me your arm. Don’t rush. Walk beside me. I once matched my pace to your tiny stride.
I don’t ask for much. No grand parties, expensive gifts, or perfect words. Just warmth, just presence, just quiet moments together. Don’t fear my aging—accept it, as I accepted your tears, fears, and fusses.
Don’t wait until I’m gone to remember how warm my hand felt. Hug me now. Say “I love you”—now, while I can still hear it. While I can still feel it.
And when you come tomorrow, don’t just be polite. Be real. I notice when you’re eager to leave. I know when silence isn’t love, but irritation. I don’t need much—just your honest, tender “Mum.”
I end this letter with trembling hands and a heart full of love. Just a reminder: I love you. Always. Until my last breath.
Your Mum.
Life’s truest gifts aren’t in grand gestures, but in the patient, quiet love that endures through time.
