The Letters from Mom

"I'm going to have to go away for a while to cure my sickness."

"For how long, Mom?"

She knelt down, tucking my hair behind my ear. Her eyes were soft, but there was something behind them I didn’t understand. Not yet.

"I don’t know, sweetheart. But it’s going to be long. Just remember—I love you so much. Grandma will take care of you, okay?"

I nodded, though my chest tightened. I didn’t know what it meant, only that something big was changing.

The next day, Grandma stood at the doorstep, arms open wide and a gentle smile on her face.

“Grandma, I’m home.”

“Hey there, sweetie,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “Come inside. I made your favorite.”

We sat at the kitchen table, and I took a bite. I paused and looked up at her.

“This tastes just like how Mom made it.”

She chuckled, eyes crinkling with warmth. “Oh please. I’m the one who taught her how to make it.”

I smiled, a little comforted. The world felt less strange in that moment.

That night, after she tucked me in, she handed me a small package.

“Your mom sent you this,” she said softly.

My eyes lit up. I tore it open to find a soft teddy bear, brown and fuzzy, with little button eyes and a red bow around its neck. It smelled faintly of lavender—just like Mom’s hugs.

“I love it.”

“I’m glad you do,” Grandma said, brushing my hair back.

As the weeks turned into months, life settled into a quiet rhythm. Grandma took me to school, made my lunch, helped with homework. On every special occasion—my birthday, the first day of school, Christmas morning—a letter would arrive.

Each one was written in Mom’s delicate handwriting. They were filled with love, encouragement, and words that made me feel like she was still close. They always arrived at just the right moment, always knew exactly what I was feeling.

One night, I curled up on the couch beside Grandma, clutching the latest letter in my hands.

“She remembers everything,” I said.

“She always did have a good memory,” Grandma replied with a soft smile.

Years went by. I grew taller, older. Grandma got a little slower, but her spirit stayed strong. We celebrated birthdays with cake and laughter, holidays with old traditions and new ones we made up together. And always—always—the letters came.

On my tenth birthday, Grandma lit the candles on my cake.

“Make a wish, Quinn,” she said, beaming.

I closed my eyes, then opened them again and looked at her. “I just wish Mom could be here.”

Grandma reached into her pocket and handed me a small envelope.

“She sent you another letter.”

I opened it slowly. My heart beat faster with every word.

My dear Quinn, happy birthday. You’re growing so fast. I wish I could be there to hold you and tell you how proud I am. I miss you dearly. Keep being brave and kind—you’re everything I dreamed you’d be.

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I miss her, Grandma.”

She wrapped her arms around me. “We all do, sweetheart.”

Time passed quickly after that. School turned into summer breaks, laughter into new memories. I learned how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to make scrambled eggs just right—everything with Grandma by my side.

Then, one quiet evening when I was fifteen, I found her sitting alone in the living room. The light from the window bathed her in gold, but her expression was distant.

“Grandma?”

She looked up slowly. Her eyes were glassy, filled with a deep, quiet sadness.

“Quinn… my time is near,” she said softly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“No,” I said quickly, rushing to her side. “Please don’t talk like that. Stay with me.”

She reached out and took my hand gently.

“I need you to know the truth. Every letter. Every gift your mom sent... they were from me.”

I stared at her, stunned. “What?”

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“She died that day in the hospital. She made me promise to take care of you. To keep her memory alive. I just couldn’t let you feel like she was gone. So I wrote the letters, sent the gifts... and tried to be her voice when yours needed to hear hers most.”

The weight of her words sank in, pressing hard on my heart. I couldn’t speak. I could only fall into her arms, crying.

“You kept her alive for me,” I whispered. “All these years… you let me believe...”

“I didn’t want you to feel alone,” she said, holding me tight. “I didn’t want you to feel abandoned. She loved you so much, Quinn. I just... tried to carry that love for her.”

“You did,” I whispered, voice trembling. “You gave me both a mother and a grandmother.”

She smiled then, fragile but full of peace. “That’s all I ever wanted.”


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