Her Letters Still Arrive

The box sat quietly at the back of Adeel’s closet. It was small, wooden, and tied with a ribbon that had faded to gray. He had not opened it in years. It wasn’t that he forgot—it was that he was afraid. Afraid of the handwriting inside, afraid of the memories it would bring rushing back.

The box contained letters. Dozens of them. All written by his mother.

She had started writing when she first learned of her illness, a sickness that slowly dimmed her strength. Instead of dwelling on the years she might not have, she filled page after page with advice, stories, prayers, and laughter. She told Adeel that he didn’t have to read them all at once. “Open them when you need me,” she had whispered the night she gave him the box.

He had been only nineteen then, a boy who thought the world was too heavy to carry. Now he was twenty-seven, standing in his small apartment after another long day of work, his heart aching from loneliness. He pulled the box down from the shelf. His hands trembled as he untied the ribbon.

The first letter he opened was marked: For the day you feel lost.

Her familiar handwriting greeted him.

“My son, life is a maze, but not every wrong turn is wasted. You will find hidden gardens, secret doors, and lessons in the corners. Do not curse the path you walk—it is teaching you where you belong.”

He sank into his chair, tears slipping silently. It was as if she knew exactly how tired he felt.

The next letter was tucked underneath, marked: For the day you doubt yourself.

“Do you remember the kites you flew on the rooftop? How the string cut into your hands, and you kept running anyway? That’s who you are. Even when your palms bleed, you still run after the sky. Don’t forget that.”

He laughed softly through his tears. He had forgotten that day, but she hadn’t. Her words stitched the memory back into his chest like a warm patch on torn fabric.

As days passed, Adeel began to open the letters one by one. He didn’t rush. Each letter felt like a conversation, like his mother was sitting across from him with a cup of tea, scolding him gently, loving him fiercely.

One evening, after a particularly hard week, he reached for a letter that had no label. His heart beat faster as he unfolded the paper.

“Adeel, if you are reading this, perhaps I am not with you anymore. Do not let that thought break you. My body may return to dust, but my love for you never will. It will live in your laughter, in the kindness you show others, in the strength you didn’t know you had. When the world feels empty, close your eyes and listen—I am always in your prayers.”

Adeel pressed the letter to his forehead. For a long time, he didn’t move. He remembered the warmth of her embrace, the smell of cardamom in her kitchen, the way she used to call his name like a song.

The pain was sharp, but beneath it was something else: gratitude. Gratitude that she had left him these pieces of herself. Gratitude that her voice still reached him, even through silence.

The last envelope remained at the bottom of the box. On the front, in bold letters, it read: For when you become a parent.

He had no children yet. But he held it in his hands, imagining the day he might. He pictured a little boy or girl asking about the grandmother they had never met. And he pictured himself reading these letters aloud, passing on her words like seeds planted into another heart.

Adeel tied the ribbon around the box again, carefully, as if sealing treasure. He placed it back in the closet, not with fear this time, but with reverence.

Her letters had carried him through loneliness, doubt, and despair. They were more than paper; they were proof that love could outlive death, stretch beyond time, and arrive exactly when needed.

The chair by the window was empty now, the kitchen quiet, the house not the same without her. But as long as the letters remained, her presence never left.

And so, whenever the days felt unbearable, Adeel would remind himself with a trembling smile:

Her letters still arrive.Start writing...