**Diary Entry**
“Mum, you left the light on all night again!” snapped Thomas as he stomped into the kitchen, irritation clear in his voice.
“Oh, love, I must have dozed off watching telly,” his mother, Margaret, replied with a guilty smile, tightening her dressing gown around her thin frame to hide the slight shiver from the cold.
Thomas lived in the same town but rarely visitedonly when he “had the time.”
“Brought you some fruit and those blood pressure tablets,” he said briskly.
“Thank you, darling. God bless you,” she murmured.
She reached out, wanting to touch his cheek, but he stepped back, already turning toward the door.
“Got to dashmeeting at work. Ill ring you soon.”
“Alright, love. Take care,” she whispered.
When the door clicked shut, she lingered by the window, watching until he disappeared around the corner. She pressed a hand to her chest and sighed.
“Take care because I wont be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman slipped something into the rusty letterbox. Margaret shuffled to the gate and pulled out a yellowed envelope, her sons name written in her own shaky hand:
*”For my Thomas, when Im no longer here.”*
She sat at the table, her fingers trembling slightly as she penned her thoughts.
*”My dearest,*
*If youre reading this, I never got to say all I wanted to.*
*Remember this: mothers dont really die. They just hide inside their childrens hearts, where the pain cant reach them.”*
She paused, her gaze falling on an old photolittle Thomas with scraped knees.
*”Do you remember, love, when you fell off that tree and swore youd never climb again?*
*I taught you to get back up.*
*Thats what I want nowfor you to rise again, not with your body, but with your soul.”*
Tears dotted the paper as she folded the letter and wrote on the envelope:
*”Leave by the gate on the day I go.”*
Three weeks later, the call came.
“Mr. Thomas? This is the hospital Im sorry, your mother passed last night.”
He didnt speak. Just closed his eyes.
Her house still smelled of lavender and quiet when he arrived. Her favourite teacup sat on the table, lipstick still marking the rim. Inside the letterboxa note with his name.
*”Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.*
*I left your blue jumper in the wardrobe. Washed it so many timesit still smells like childhood.”*
Thomas broke. Every word ached like a memory he could never fix.
*”Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.*
*But mothers live on even the crumbs of their childrens time.*
*You rarely called, but every ring felt like Christmas to me.*
*I dont want you to hurt. Just rememberI was always proud of you.”*
At the bottom, shed written:
*”When youre cold, put your hand over your heart.*
*Youll feel warmth. Thats mestill beating inside you.”*
He collapsed to his knees, clutching the letter.
“Mum why didnt I come more?”
The house answered with silence.
He slept on the floor that night. At dawn, sunlight seeped through the old curtains. He wandered, touching 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 again.”*
The tears came anew.
Days passed, but peace didnt. He worked, lived, yet his mind stayed in that house with the yellowed lace curtains. One weekend, he returned.
He opened the window, and birdsong rushed in. The postman approached the gate.
“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 here, you must have missed me.*
*I left this house not as an inheritance, but as a living memory.*
*Put flowers on the sill. Brew a cuppa.*
*And dont keep the light just for yourselfleave it on for me too. Maybe Ill see it from up there.”*
He smiled through the tears.
“Mum Ill leave it on every night. Promise.”
Outside, he tilted his face to the sky. For a moment, the clouds shaped her silhouettedressed in her old floral nightgown.
“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 plants, fixing the fence, setting the kettle as if for two.
Once, he brought his five-year-old son.
“Your nan lived here,” he said.
“Where is she now, Dad?”
“Up there. But she can hear us.”
The boy waved at the sky. “Nan! Love you!”
Thomas smiled, tears bright in his eyes.
And for a second, the wind whispered back in a voice warm as tea:
*”Love you both.”*
Because no mother ever truly leaves.
She lives in your laughter, in how you rise, in how you tell your own children *”I love you.”*
A mothers love is the only letter that never gets lost.
