«Mum, you’ve left the light on all night again!» grumbled Alfred as he stepped into the kitchen.
«Ah, I mustve dozed off, son I was watching my programme and didnt notice,» the woman replied with a weary smile.
«At your age, you ought to rest, not stay up all hours telly-watching!»
His mother simply smiled and said nothing, tightening her dressing gown to hide the way she shivered from the cold.
Alfred lived in the same town but visited rarelyonly when he «found the time.»
«I brought you some fruit and your blood pressure medicine,» he said briskly.
«Thank you, dear. God bless you,» she whispered.
She reached to touch his cheek, but he pulled away.
«Ive got to dasha meeting at work. Ill ring you next week.»
«Alright, love. Take care,» she murmured.
After he left, she lingered by the window, watching him disappear around the street corner. She pressed a hand to her chest and whispered,
«Look after yourself I shant be here much longer.»
The next morning, the postman dropped a letter into the rusted old mailbox.
Margaret slowly made her way to the gate and pulled out an envelope marked:
«For my son Alfred, when Im gone.»
She sat at the table and began writing in a trembling hand:
«My dearest boy,
If youre reading this, I never had the chance to say all that was in my heart.
Know thismothers never truly die. They simply hide away in their childrens hearts, where the pain cannot reach them.»
She set down the pen, gazing at an old photographyoung Alfie with scraped knees.
«Remember, love, when you fell from the tree and swore youd never climb again?
I taught you how to get back up.
Now, I want you to rise once morenot with your legs, but with your soul.»
She wiped her tears, sealed the letter, and wrote on the envelope:
«Leave by the gate on the day I pass.»
Three weeks later, the phone rang.
«Mr. Alfred? This is Sister Grace from the hospital Your mother passed last night.»
He closed his eyes in silence.
Returning home, the air smelled of lavender and stillness.
Her favourite teacup sat on the table, the wall clock long stopped.
In the mailbox lay an envelope with his name.
He opened it with shaking handshis mothers handwriting.
«Dont weep, my dear. Tears wont bring back whats lost.
In the wardrobe, your blue jumper. I washed it so many timesit still smells of childhood.»
Alfred broke down.
Every word struck deeper than any reproach.
«Dont blame yourself. I knew you had your own life.
A mother lives on even the crumbs of her childs attention.
You rang seldom, but each call was a gift.
I dont want your sorrow. I want you to remember
I was always proud of you.»
At the end, she had written:
«When you feel cold, place your hand over your heart.
That warmth you feel? Its mine, still beating inside you.»
He sank to his knees, clutching the letter to his chest.
«Mum why did I come so rarely?»
The house answered with silence.
He fell asleep right there on the floor.
At dawn, sunlight filtered through the aged curtains.
He wandered through the rooms, touching teacups, photographs, her dressing gown draped over the chair.
On the fridge, a note:
«Alfie, Ive made shepherds pie and left it in the freezer. I know youll forget to eat.»
He wept again.
Days passed, but peace eluded him.
He went to work, but his thoughts always returned to the house with yellow curtains.
One Saturday, he could bear it no longer and went back.
He opened the window, and birdsong filled the room.
The postman came up the path.
«Good morning, Mr. Alfred. My condolences.»
«Thank you.»
«Your mum left another letter. Asked me to give it to you when you returned.»
He opened itthat same familiar hand:
«My boy,
If youre back, you mustve missed me.
This house isnt just an inheritanceits a living memory.
Put flowers in the window. Brew a cuppa.
And dont keep the light just for yourselfleave it on for me. Perhaps Ill see it from afar.»
He smiled through his tears.
«Mum itll burn every night.»
He stepped into the garden and looked up at the sky.
In the clouds, he almost saw hera faint silhouette in a flowered dressing gown.
«You taught me how to live, Mum now teach me how to live without you.»
Years passed.
The house remained alive.
Alfred visited oftenwatering the flowers, mending the fence, always setting the kettle for two.
One day, he brought his little son.
«Your gran lived here,» he said.
«Where is she now, Dad?»
«Up there. But she hears us.»
The boy looked up and waved.
«Gran! I love you!»
Alfred smiled through his tears.
And in the whisper of the wind, he couldve sworn he heard her reply:
«I love you too. Both of you.»
Because mothers never vanish.
They live onin the way you smile, in how you rise after a fall, in how you say «I love you» to your own children.
A mothers love is a letter that always finds its way home.
