From Mother, With Love

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting soft gold across the kitchen floor where little Lila sat cross-legged, carefully threading wildflowers into a crooked chain. She hummed a melody she didn’t quite know the name of—something her mother sang when the world felt too big and Lila felt too small.

Today was the day she would deliver her letter.

On the table lay a neatly folded sheet of paper with crayon drawings of hearts and stars. In the center, written in her roundest letters, were the words: “For Mommy. Please come home soon.”

Her grandmother, Mara, watched quietly from the stove. Every morning, she warmed tea the way her daughter once had, stirring it with a wooden spoon worn smooth by years of gentle hands. Mara caught sight of Lila clutching the letter and felt her heart tighten.

“You ready, my star?” Mara asked.

Lila nodded, her curls bouncing. “I made her favorite flowers, too.”

They stepped outside into the cool breeze. The walk to the field was just long enough for Mara to worry and long enough for Lila to imagine. She imagined her mother stepping out from behind a tree, smiling wide, arms open. She imagined the sound of her laugh again—bright, warm, full of sunlight.

At the edge of the meadow, Lila knelt in front of a small wooden post standing quietly among the tall grass. At its top was a brass plaque engraved with her mother’s name and a single line: “She lived with courage, and she loved without fear.”

Lila placed the flower chain over the post, letting it drape like a soft crown. She sat down beside it, legs folded neatly beneath her, the letter held tightly between her palms.

“Hi, Mommy,” she whispered. “I brought you something.”

Mara stood a few steps behind, giving Lila space. The wind rustled through the meadow, carrying with it the mingled scent of clover and fresh earth. Lila pressed the letter against the plaque, closing her eyes.

“I’m doing good,” she said. “Grandma says I’m brave. She says you’d be proud of me. I’m trying really hard to be. I don’t cry as much anymore. But sometimes…” Her voice quivered. “Sometimes the nights feel big. And quiet. And I miss you.”

She paused, her tiny fingers tracing the engraved letters.

“I drew us together on the back of the letter,” she continued softly. “You holding my hand. And I wrote that I love you. I think you already know, but I wanted to say it anyway.”

She slipped the note into the small wooden box beside the marker—a place Mara had crafted so Lila could keep leaving gifts, messages, and pieces of her heart.

A tear slid down Lila’s cheek. She wiped it quickly, glancing back toward her grandmother. Mara knelt beside her, pulling her close.

“She hears you,” Mara murmured. “She always does.”

Lila leaned into her grandmother’s warmth. “I wish she could hug me.”

Mara closed her eyes. “Me too.”

They stayed there for a long time—two generations holding one another in a quiet meadow that held the memory of a third.

When the wind picked up again, it lifted the flower chain slightly and set it swaying. Lila watched it move and whispered, “That’s her waving, right?”

Mara smiled. “Yes, star. That’s her waving.”

Lila stood and took her grandmother’s hand for the walk back home. Their shadows stretched long behind them, merging briefly into one before separating again—like the past gently touching the present.

As they reached the garden gate, Lila looked up at the sky, where clouds drifted in soft, drifting shapes. She felt something settle warm and tender inside her.

She didn’t need to see her mother to feel her love.

Some loves didn’t end. They simply changed shape—turning into wildflower chains, crayon letters, and the whisper of wind through a quiet meadow.

And that, Lila knew deep in her small but brave heart, was her mother’s way of staying.