The Last Hug I Remember

The clock on the wall ticked slowly, each second loud in the silence of my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the old photo on my nightstand. It was a picture of my mother and me, taken on a rainy afternoon years ago. We were laughing, her arms wrapped around me in a warm, tight hug. That hug—the last one I remember—still lives in my heart like a quiet whisper I can’t forget.

I was seventeen when she passed away. A sudden illness took her in just a few days. One moment she was cooking my favorite chicken curry, telling me to clean my room, and the next, she was lying in a hospital bed, pale and quiet, her hands too cold.

But let me take you back a little further—before the hospital, before the pain. Let me take you to the moment that still holds me together.

It was a Wednesday evening. The sky outside was turning orange, the way it does when the sun is tired but still beautiful. I had come home angry that day. A boy at school had laughed at me, and my teacher had called me lazy in front of everyone. I threw my bag on the floor and slammed the door to my room.

“Dinner’s ready,” my mother called from the kitchen. Her voice was soft, as always.

“I’m not hungry!” I yelled back, tears already stinging my eyes.

She didn’t reply right away. I heard her footsteps coming toward my room. I expected her to shout, to scold me like most parents might. But she didn’t. Instead, she knocked gently and opened the door slowly.

I turned my face away. “Just leave me alone.”

She didn’t leave.

She came in, sat beside me, and said nothing for a while. Then she placed her hand on my back. “Rough day?”

I nodded without looking at her. My chest was tight, my pride even tighter.

She let out a quiet sigh and said, “Come here.”

And I did.

I don’t know why, but I crawled into her arms like I was five years old again. She wrapped me up in a hug so deep, so warm, that all the anger melted like snow in the sun. I buried my face in her shoulder and cried. She didn’t rush me. She just held me.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Always.”

That hug… it felt like safety. Like love with no conditions. Like a promise made of silence.

I didn’t know then that it would be the last hug I’d ever get from her.

A week later, she got sick. The doctors said it was serious. I didn’t understand most of the medical words they used. I only saw her growing weaker, her smile slowly fading.

She tried to stay strong, even joked about hospital food. But I could see the tiredness in her eyes.

The day she passed, I wasn’t even there. I had gone home to grab her favorite scarf. She always said it made her feel lucky. When I returned, the nurses were crying. My father stood frozen by the bed. And she… she was gone.

I dropped the scarf on the floor and ran to her, hoping it was a mistake. But her hands were cold. So, so cold.

I never got to say goodbye.

In the days that followed, the house felt empty. Her laugh didn’t echo in the kitchen anymore. Her music didn’t play in the mornings. Her slippers stayed by the door, untouched.

But that hug—the last hug I remember—stayed with me.

Whenever the world feels too heavy, I close my eyes and go back to that orange sunset. I hear her call me gently, feel her arms wrap around me. In that memory, I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m home.

Years have passed now. I’ve grown up. I live in another city, chasing dreams she always encouraged. But sometimes, late at night, I sit by the window and whisper, “I miss you, Mom.”

I don’t know if she hears me. But I hope she does.

Because if I could have one wish, just one more moment, I’d ask for that hug again. Just one more time. To feel her warmth. To hear her whisper, “I’m here. Always.”

But for now, I hold onto the memory. It’s not just a hug—it’s a piece of her I carry everywhere I go.

The last hug I remember… is the one I’ll never forget.