“Mum, the light was on all night again!” exclaimed Alex, stepping into the kitchen with irritation.
“Oh, I mustve fallen asleep, love Was watching a show and dozed off,” his mother replied with a guilty smile.
“At your age, you should be sleeping at night, not sitting by the telly!”
She said nothing, only smiled faintly, her hands clutching her dressing gown tightly to hide the way she trembled from the cold.
Alex lived in the same town but rarely visitedonly when he “had the time.”
“Brought you some fruit and those blood pressure tablets,” he said quickly.
“Thank you, son. God bless you,” she murmured softly.
She reached to touch his face, but he stepped backalways in a hurry.
“Got to runwork meeting. Ill call sometime this week.”
“Alright, love. Take care,” she whispered.
As the door closed, she lingered by the window, watching until he disappeared around the corner.
She pressed a hand to her chest and whispered,
“Take care because I wont be here much longer.”
The next morning, the postman slipped something into the old letterbox.
Mary shuffled to the door, pulling out a yellowed envelope with handwriting she knew well.
On it, it read:
*”For my son Alex, when Im gone.”*
She sat at the table, her hand trembling slightly as she wrote:
*”My darling, if youre reading this, it means I never got to say everything I felt.
I need you to knowmothers dont really die. They just hide inside their childrens hearts, so the hurt wont be too much.”*
She set the pen down, her eyes resting on an old photographlittle Alex with scraped knees.
*”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 for you nowto rise, not just in body, but in soul.”*
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she folded the letter and wrote on the envelope:
*”Leave by the door on the day I go.”*
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
“Mr. Alex? This is the hospital Your mother passed last night.”
He said nothing. Just closed his eyes.
When he arrived at her house, it smelled of lavender and silence.
Her favourite cup, still bearing the faint imprint of her lips, sat on the table.
In the letterboxan envelope with his name.
Inside, her writing:
*”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.”*
Alex broke.
Every word ached like a memory he couldnt undo.
*”Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
But mothers live on even in the crumbs of their childrens attention.
You called rarely, but every call was a celebration for me.
I dont want you to grieve. Just rememberI was always proud of you.”*
At the bottom, it said:
*”When you feel coldplace your hand on your heart.
Youll feel warmth. Thats mestill beating inside you.”*
He sank to his knees, clutching the letter to his chest.
“Mum why didnt I come more often?” he whispered.
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep 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:
*”Alex, I made shepherds pie and left it in the freezer. Knew youd forget to eat again.”*
He wept.
Days passed, but peace didnt come.
He worked, he livedbut his thoughts stayed in that house with the yellow curtains.
One weekend, he returned.
He opened the window, and birdsong drifted in.
The postman came by the gate.
“Morning, Mr. Alex. My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mum left another letter. Said to give it to you when you came back.”
He unfolded it and read:
*”Love, if youre back, it means you missed me.
I didnt leave this house as an inheritancebut as a living memory.
Put flowers on the windowsill. Make a cuppa.
And dont keep the light just for yourselfleave it on for me, too. Maybe Ill see it from up here.”*
He smiled through tears.
“Mum Ill leave it on every night, I promise.”
He stepped into the garden, looking up at the sky.
For a moment, he thought he saw her silhouette in the cloudsher white dressing gown dotted with flowers.
“You taught me how to live, Mum Now teach me how to live without you.”
Years passed.
The house stayed warm, alive.
Alex visited oftenplanted flowers, fixed the fence, boiled the kettle as if for two.
One day, he brought his five-year-old son.
“Your gran lived here,” he said.
“Wheres she now, Dad?”
“Up there. But she hears us.”
The little boy looked at the sky and waved.
“Gran! I love you!”
Alex smiled through tears.
And for a second, the wind seemed to whisper back in a warm voice:
*”And I love you. Both of you.”*
Because no mother ever truly disappears.
She lives in the way you laugh, the way you rise, the way you say *”I love you”* to your own children.
Because a mothers love is the only letter that never fails to reach its destination.
