«Mum, you left the light on all night again!» grumbled Oliver as he stepped into the kitchen.
«Oh, I mustve nodded off, love… was watching telly and didnt realise,» she replied with a tired smile.
«At your age, you should be resting, not burning the midnight oil with rubbish telly!»
His mother just smiled quietly, tightening her dressing gown against the chill she didnt want him to see. Oliver lived just across town but rarely visitedalways «too busy.»
«Brought you some fruit and your blood pressure tablets,» he said briskly.
«Ta, son. God bless you,» she murmured. She reached to touch his cheek, but he pulled away.
«Got to dashwork meeting. Ill ring next week.»
«Alright, love. Take care,» she whispered.
After he left, she stood by the window, watching until he vanished round the corner. Pressing a hand to her chest, she sighed, «Take care… I wont be here long.»
The next morning, the postman dropped something into the rusty old letterbox. Margaret shuffled to the gate and pulled out an envelope labelled: *For my son Oliver, when Im gone.*
She sat at the table, her hand trembling as she wrote:
*My dear boy,*
*If youre reading this, I ran out of time to say whats in my heart.*
*Remembermothers dont die. They tuck themselves into their childrens hearts so it hurts less.*
She paused, glancing at an old photolittle Ollie with scraped knees.
*Remember when you fell out of that tree and swore youd never climb again?*
*I taught you to get back up.*
*Now I need you to risenot with your legs, but with your soul.*
Wiping her tears, she sealed the envelope and scrawled: *Leave by the gate the day Im gone.*
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
«Mr. Oliver? Its Sister Matthews from the hospice… Your mum passed last night.»
He closed his eyes in silence.
At her house, the air smelled of lavender and stillness. Her favourite mug sat on the table; the wall clock had stopped long ago. In the letterboxan envelope with his name.
His hands shook as he read her writing:
*Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring me back.*
*Your blue jumpers in the wardrobe. Washed it a hundred timesit still smells of you at six.*
Oliver broke. Every word cut deeper than any scolding.
*Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.*
*Mums survive on crumbs of their childrens time.*
*You rarely called, but every ring was Christmas morning.*
*Be sad, but dont suffer. Just rememberI was proud of you.*
At the bottom:
*When youre cold, press your hand to your chest.*
*That warmth? My heart still beating in yours.*
He crumpled to his knees, clutching the letter. «Mum… why didnt I visit more?»
The house held its silence. He fell asleep on the floor.
At dawn, sunlight crept through the faded curtains. He wandered the rooms, touching her teacups, photos, the dressing gown draped over a chair. A note on the fridge:
*Olliemade your favourite shepherds pie. Its in the freezer. Eat properly for once.*
He wept again.
Days passed, but peace didnt come. He worked mechanically, his mind drifting back to the house with daisy-patterned curtains.
One Saturday, he returned. As he opened a window, birdsong spilled in. The postman approached the gate.
«Mr. Oliver? Condolences.»
«Cheers.»
«Your mum left another letter. Said to give it when you came back.»
He tore it openher familiar scrawl:
*Son,*
*If youre here, youve missed me.*
*This house isnt an inheritanceits a living memory.*
*Put flowers in the window. Brew a cuppa.*
*And leave the light onnot just for you. Maybe Ill see it from here.*
He smiled through tears. «Mum… itll stay on every night.»
Stepping outside, he gazed at the sky. Was that hera wisp of cloud in a floral apron?
«You taught me how to live, Mum… now teach me how to live without you.»
Years later, the house stayed alive. Oliver visited oftenwatering plants, fixing the fence, boiling the kettlealways for two.
One day, he brought his little boy.
«Your nan lived here,» he said.
«Where is she now, Dad?»
«Up there. But she hears us.»
The boy waved at the sky. «Love you, Nan!»
Oliver smiled. The wind rustled, and for a moment, he heard her:
*»Love you both.»*
Because mothers never really leave. They lingerin your smile, how you rise after falling, how you whisper *»love you»* to your own children.
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home. And so, every evening, without fail, Oliver flipped the switch by the door, casting a warm glow into the gathering dark. The light burned steadily, a quiet promise kept, just as the kettle always whistled for two. When his son asked why, Oliver would point to the window and say, «Thats how you know shes near.» And in the stillness, with the daisies swaying under the eaves and the scent of lavender on the breeze, the house hummed with a love that time could not erase.
