**Diary Entry**
«Mum, you left the lights on all night again!» Thomas said irritably as he walked into the kitchen.
«Oh, I mustve dozed off, love Was watching telly and didnt realise,» she replied with a tired smile.
«At your age, you should be resting, not staying up late watching shows!»
His mother smiled quietly and said nothing, pulling her dressing gown tighter to hide how she shivered from the cold.
Thomas lived in the same town but visited rarelyonly «when he found the time.»
«I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure pills,» he said briskly.
«Thank you, son. God bless you,» she whispered.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he moved away.
«Ive got to dashwork meeting. Ill ring you this week.»
«Alright, love. Take care,» she murmured.
When he left, she stood at the window for a long time, watching him disappear around the corner. She pressed a hand to her chest and whispered,
«Take care I wont be here much longer.»
The next morning, the postman dropped something into the old, rusted letterbox.
Margaret slowly walked to the gate and pulled out an envelope labelled:
«For my son Thomas, when Im gone.»
She sat at the table and began writing with a shaky hand.
«My dearest,
If youre reading this, I never got to say all that was in my heart.
Remember, mothers dont die. They hide inside their childrens hearts, so the pain wont hurt too much.»
She set the pen down, staring at an old photolittle Tommy with scraped knees.
«Remember when you fell out of that oak tree and swore youd never climb again?
And I taught you to get back up.
Now, I want you to rise againnot with your legs, but with your soul.»
She wiped her tears, tucked the letter inside, and wrote on the envelope:
«Leave by the gate the day Im gone.»
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
«Mr. Thomas? Its the nurse from St. Marys Your mother passed last night.»
He closed his eyes in silence.
When he arrived at her house, the air smelled of lavender and stillness.
Her favourite mug sat on the table; the clock on the wall had stopped long ago.
In the mailbox was an envelope with his name.
Hands trembling, he opened it. His mothers handwriting.
«Dont cry, love. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the wardrobe is your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells like childhood.»
Thomas broke down. Every word struck deeper than any scolding.
«Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
Mothers live on scraps of their childrens time.
You called seldom, but each call was a gift.
I dont want you to suffer. I want you to remember: I was proud of you.»
At the end, shed written:
«When you feel cold, place your hand on your chest.
The warmth you feelthats my heart still beating inside you.»
He fell to his knees, clutching the letter.
«Mum why didnt I visit more?»
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep right there on the floor.
When he woke, sunlight crept through the threadbare curtains.
He wandered the house, touching teacups, photos, her dressing gown still draped over a chair.
On the fridge, a note:
«Tommymade your favourite shepherds pie. Left it in the freezer. Knew youd forget to eat.»
He wept again.
Days passed, but peace didnt come.
He went to work, but his mind kept drifting back to the house with yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he couldnt bear ithe returned.
He opened the window, and birdsong spilled inside.
The postman walked up the path.
«Afternoon, Mr. Thomas. My condolences.»
«Thank you.»
«Your mum left you another letter. Asked me to give it when you came back.»
He opened it. That same familiar handwriting.
«Love,
If youre reading this, you mustve missed me.
This house isnt just an inheritanceits a living memory.
Put flowers in the window. Brew a cuppa.
And dont leave the light on just for youleave it for me. Maybe Ill see it from above.»
He smiled through tears.
«Mum Ill keep it on every night.»
He stepped into the garden and looked up at the sky.
In the clouds, he thought he saw hera faint silhouette in a white dressing gown, holding flowers.
«You taught me how to live, Mum now teach me how to live without you.»
Years passed.
The house stayed alive.
Thomas visited oftenwatering flowers, fixing the fence, boiling the kettlealways for two.
One day, he brought his little boy.
«Your grandma lived here,» he said.
«Where is she now, Dad?»
«Up there. But she can hear us.»
The boy waved at the sky.
«Grandma! I love you!»
Thomas smiled through tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he couldve sworn he heard her reply:
«I love you too. Both of you.»
For mothers never truly leave.
They lingerin the way you smile, in how you rise after falling, in the way you tell your own children «I love you.»
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home.
