My mom was obsessed with the number three. Three alarms in the morning, three thank-yous before hanging up, three hugs before trips. I tried giving her two kisses once, and she whispered, “One more, or I’ll worry all day.”
At first, I thought it was just a quirk. But one night, she told me why: when she was a child, her brother Danny gave her two pats instead of three before school, and he died in an accident that afternoon. From then on, she never skipped the third.
By college, I’d internalized it. Three sips of coffee, three deep breaths, three knocks—my mom’s ritual became mine. When I forgot one day, she panicked. Later, she survived a minor heart attack, joking, “I guess I used up one of my threes.”
Years later, she died suddenly. In her journals, I found a letter: x3. Her “threes” were her way of surviving loss, holding control in a chaotic world.
Now I pass it on. My daughter, Daniella, gives three kisses at bedtime. Three isn’t about fear anymore—it’s about love, memory, and connection.
We carry people in little ways—in habits, words, pauses. Sometimes three is enough to hold them close forever.
