My First and Last Letter to My Mom

I remember the first time I wrote to my mom. I was eight years old, sitting at a small wooden desk by the window, my legs swinging above the floor. She had left for work early that morning, leaving me with a lunchbox full of peanut butter sandwiches and a promise she would be back before sunset. I missed her before she had even gone.

The letter was clumsy, filled with uneven handwriting and spelling mistakes. I folded the paper into a triangle, just like she had shown me in school. "Dear Mom," I wrote, "I love you. I hope you are happy. I miss you." My pencil broke halfway through, leaving a dark blot on the page, but I continued anyway. I wanted her to know everything I felt, even if I could not find the right words.

I tucked the letter into my pocket and ran to the bus stop. On the ride home, I imagined her opening it, smiling at the crooked letters, maybe laughing at my little drawing of a cat at the bottom. That moment of sending her my words felt like a small bridge between us, a way to reach her heart even when she was far away.

Years passed, and letters became our language. I moved to a new school, started staying late for extracurricular activities, and sometimes got lost in my own world. But every week, a letter would appear on my desk. Some were short, simple reminders that she was thinking of me. Others were long and winding, filled with stories about her day, her memories of my childhood, and advice she thought I might need. Each letter was a thread, tying us together across the miles.

Life grew complicated as I grew older. I left for college in another city, chasing dreams I thought would make her proud. Our letters became less frequent. Phone calls replaced written words, and messages replaced phone calls. Life moved fast, and yet, somewhere deep inside, I kept every letter she had ever sent me. The words were a lifeline when I felt alone, a reminder that someone loved me without condition.

Then came the day I never thought I would face. Mom’s health declined suddenly, faster than any of us could prepare for. I rushed to the hospital, clutching a stack of old letters in my hands, the ones I had written her and the ones she had sent me. Sitting by her bedside, I realized I had one last letter to write. This one had to be perfect, a mirror of all the love, gratitude, and memories I carried inside me.

I took a clean sheet of paper and began. "Dear Mom," I wrote, "I want you to know that every moment with you has shaped who I am. I am grateful for your love, your patience, and your guidance. I am sorry for the times I was distant, for the words left unsaid, and for the hugs I did not give when I should have. I love you more than I can ever express."

My hand shook, but I continued, pouring my heart onto the page. I wrote about our mornings together, the stories she told me before bed, the laughter, and even the tears. I folded the letter carefully and placed it on her pillow. I whispered her name softly, hoping she could feel my love even without words.

Mom passed away that night. I do not know if she ever read my final letter, but it no longer mattered. The act of writing it, of giving her every bit of my heart, gave me a sense of peace I had never known. Every letter, from the first to the last, had been a conversation of love, and now it was complete.

Years later, I still read the letters. I read them when I miss her, when life feels too heavy, and when I want to remember the warmth of her presence. The first and last letters to my mom remind me that love can survive distance, time, and even death. It lives in words, in memories, and in the quiet spaces between one heartbeat and the next.