At 24, jobless and sleeping in my car with two children, I begged my mother for shelter. She said her boyfriend wouldn’t let us stay.
“Then forget me,” I whispered, walking away.
She called and messaged for weeks, begging to explain. Hurt and angry, I ignored her.
Five weeks later, she died.
At her funeral, her boyfriend handed me a bag filled with handmade hats, sweaters, and blankets labeled with my children’s names. Inside were letters revealing she’d known she had only weeks left. She hadn’t wanted us to see her suffering.
My anger gave way to grief—and regret that we never spoke again.
Now, wrapped in her blankets, my children hear stories about the grandmother who loved them. And I whisper the words she’ll never hear: “I’m sorry, Mom.”
