I sat there on the floor, dirt on my hands, the plant tipped over beside me, and I broke down in tears so deep they stole my breath. I had no idea those coins existed. No idea she’d been saving them—hiding them—protecting them.
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She could have used that money. She could have made her last days more comfortable. She could have asked for better care, better food, maybe even stayed home a little longer.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she chose my children. Their future. Even after I had taken her home away, even after I had been cold and selfish and practical to the point of cruelty.
My sick mother was still thinking of us.
That night, I held the plant against my chest like it was the last piece of her I had left. I whispered apologies into the empty house. I told her I was sorry for not visiting more. Sorry for choosing convenience over compassion. Sorry for not holding her hand when she needed it most.
I wish she were here so I could hold her now.
But all I have are three small bags of coins, a living plant, and a lesson I learned far too late: a mother’s love doesn’t stop, even when we fail her.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
