The Last Birthday Gift:

Ali changed into simplest 9 when his mom died.

Cancer had taken her slowly—first her hair, then her strength, and sooner or later her voice. but she never allow him see her cry. She smiled thru the pain, braided his hair with trembling hands, and whispered bedtime testimonies even when her lungs begged for rest.

On her final night, she held his hand and stated, “I’ll continually be with you. even when I’m no longer.”

Ali didn’t apprehend. He just wanted her to stay.

The funeral was quiet. His father didn’t talk a whole lot. household came and went, presenting meals and prayers, but Ali sat within the nook, clutching the scarf his mother used to put on. It nonetheless smelled like her—lavender and hope.

The first Letter

On his tenth birthday, Ali obtained a small envelope from his father. It was handwritten, sealed with a coronary heart sticker.

“Happy Birthday, my brave boy.

I know you miss me. I miss you too.

Eat cake. laugh loudly. Hug your dad twice.

I’m proud of you already.

– Mama”

Ali cried for hours. His father defined:

She had written a letter for each birthday till he became 21.

“She wanted you to feel her love each 12 months,” his father stated, voice cracking.

Ali didn’t communicate. He just held the letter to his chest and slept with it beneath his pillow.

The Years That followed

Each year, a new envelope arrived.

At 11, when he felt by myself at School:

“You’re no longer alone. You’re just distinct. And exclusive is beautiful.”

At 13, when he felt indignant at the arena:

“It’s okay to be mad. just don’t let it flip you bloodless.”

At 16, while he had his first heartbreak:

“Love hurts. but it also heals. Don’t near your heart.”

At 18, when he were given into university:

“I knew you’d make it. I’m clapping from the clouds.”

The letters became his lifeline.

He Read them when he felt lost.

He kept them in a field under his bed, wrapped in her favourite scarf.

Smoetimes he’d read old ones once more, just to pay attention her voice in his head.

The very last Letter

On his 21st birthday, the final envelope arrived.

It turned into thicker than the others. internal became a folded notice and a small key.

“My dearest Ali,

You’ve grown into the man I dreamed of.

this is my remaining letter—however no longer the end.

the important thing opens a box inside the attic.

inside is my magazine. My tale. My love.

study it when you’re geared up.

And take into account:

You were my greatest present.

– Mama”

Ali climbed into the attic, trembling.

He found the box. Inside was her journal—full of reminiscences, drawings, poems, and pages about him.

His first word. His favored lullaby.

Her fears. Her hopes. Her love.

She had written about the day she located out she was unwell.

About the night she cried by myself in the bathroom.

About how she wanted to stay—but more than that, she wanted him to live absolutely.

Ali read until sunrise.

He cried until his chest ached.

And then he smiled—due to the fact she had never virtually left.

Epilogue: The Boy Who Carried Letters

Ali now writes letters for children who’ve lost someone.

He tells them:

“Love doesn’t die. It simply changes shape.”

He volunteers at grief centers.

He teaches children the way to write to the ones they leave out.

He tells them to mention what they experience, even though it hurts.

And each year, on his birthday, he reads one among her letters once more.

no longer because he desires to.

but due to the fact he wants to feel her voice one extra time.

Some stories don’t stop. They echo.

Ali’s Story is one of these.

A boy who lost his mom—but never her love.

And someplace, in a quiet attic, a magazine waits.

Not for closure.

But for remembrance.