The Last Hug I Remember
A daughter’s goodbye that still echoes in her heart
I still remember the way her arms felt around me — warm, soft, and safe. That hug was the last one I ever got from my mother. I didn’t know then that it would be our final moment together. But now, years later, it still lives inside me like a small, glowing light.
It was a cloudy Sunday morning. The kind of morning where the sky looks like it’s holding back tears. I was running late. My bags were packed for college, and my mother stood near the front door, her smile quiet and a little sad.
“Come here,” she said, holding out her arms.
I was in a hurry. My friends were waiting outside in the car. I gave her a quick hug — not too tight, not too long — just enough to say goodbye. But something in her held on a little longer. She whispered, “Take care of yourself. Don’t forget to eat, and call me when you get there.”
I rolled my eyes, laughed, and said, “Yes, Mom. You always say that.”
She smiled, but I saw something in her eyes. Something I didn’t understand at the time. It looked like fear. Or maybe it was just love.
That was the last hug I remember.
________________________________________
College was exciting. New friends, new places, freedom. I called home less often than I should have. My mom would message me now and then — pictures of our dog, reminders to wear warm clothes, recipes she thought I’d like. I replied with short texts: “Thanks!” “LOL.” “Busy now. Talk later.”
She never complained. She just kept loving me the way only a mother can — quietly, patiently, always.
Then one day, I got a call.
It was my father. His voice was shaking. “She collapsed. They’re taking her to the hospital.”
My world stopped.
By the time I reached home, it was too late. My mom had passed away in her sleep. A silent goodbye. No warning. No second chance.
I remember standing in her room, staring at her bed, her favorite sweater still hanging on the chair. Everything smelled like her — lavender and love.
I fell to my knees and cried.
And then, out of nowhere, I remembered that last hug. The way she had held me. The way she didn’t want to let go. I think now she must have known something. Maybe not in her mind, but in her heart.
________________________________________
Grief is a strange thing. At first, it crushed me. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I kept wishing for one more phone call, one more message, one more hug.
But slowly, I started noticing small signs.
Her favorite song would play on the radio when I was thinking about her. A white butterfly would land on my window every morning. Her voice would echo in my head when I skipped meals: “Don’t forget to eat.”
I started writing letters to her. I’d sit in the park with a notebook and pour out my thoughts.
“Hi Mom, I made pancakes today. They weren’t as good as yours.”
“Mom, I wore that sweater you gave me. It still smells like you.”
“Mom, I miss you so much it hurts.”
It didn’t bring her back. But it brought me closer to her memory.
________________________________________
One year after she passed, I went back home. My dad had kept her room the same. I walked in and sat on her bed. That’s when I saw the note.
It was inside her favorite book, underlined in her handwriting:
“One day, you’ll understand the meaning of a hug. It’s more than just arms around you. It’s a moment that lasts forever.”
Tears ran down my face.
That was her gift to me. That last hug wasn’t short or forgettable. It was the one thing she gave me that I still carry — in my heart, in my bones, in the way I hug others now.
________________________________________
Today, whenever I hug someone I love, I hold on a little longer. I say, “I love you” out loud. I don’t wait for the perfect time. Because sometimes, there’s no next time.
Life moves fast. But love — real love — it stays.
And the last hug I remember?
It still hugs me back.
________________________________________
Author's Note:
If you’ve lost someone you love, know that you are not alone. Grief doesn’t go away, but love doesn’t either. Let’s remember to hug a little tighter, speak a little kinder, and never leave without saying “I love you.”
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from IMON and writers in Motivation and other communities.
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.
By IMON8 months ago in Motivation
“The Man Who Never Missed a Day”
When I was 17, I met a man who delivered newspapers in the rain. Not in a casual, half-hearted way—but fully committed, every single morning. He would leave his house before sunrise, his coat soaked, shoes falling apart, and the wind cutting through him like a knife. Yet, despite the cold and wet, he smiled at everyone on his route. To a teenager like me, it was both confusing and inspiring. I remember the first time I saw him struggle with a bundle of papers that seemed almost too heavy for him. He slipped on the wet pavement, muttered something under his breath, and kept walking. When he reached the next house, he knocked on the door, handed over the paper, and smiled as the door closed. That smile was strange to me—it wasn’t pride or satisfaction, it was… calm. Almost peaceful. Curious, I approached him one morning. “Why don’t you take a day off when it’s so hard?” I asked, shivering in my hoodie as the rain soaked me through. He laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that didn’t sound annoyed, only knowing. “Son, nobody cares about today,” he said, shaking his head. “What matters is tomorrow. You build your life the same way: one small effort, every day, even when nobody notices.” At the time, I didn’t understand. My life felt urgent, like it had to explode with success immediately. I was chasing big ideas, jumping from project to project, leaving most half-finished. I thought motivation was everything—without the spark of inspiration, nothing mattered. The idea of showing up every single day, even when tired, even when bored, even when invisible, felt almost insane. I watched him for weeks. Rain or shine, he was there. I started noticing small details I hadn’t seen before—the careful folding of the papers, the way he adjusted his wet coat to protect the bundle, the extra minute he took to smile at a child running out to grab the paper. Every morning, the same ritual. Every morning, the same effort. And yet, nobody cheered. Nobody noticed. Years passed. I went to college, chasing my own “big dreams,” my own versions of instant success. I started businesses, abandoned them; learned new skills, stopped halfway; made promises to myself I couldn’t keep. I told myself I was working toward greatness, but mostly, I was chasing the idea of success, not the work itself. Motivation was my fuel, and when it ran out, I stopped moving. Meanwhile, the memory of that man stayed with me. The quiet diligence, the smile in the pouring rain. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had already taught me the most important lesson: consistency matters more than talent, and persistence matters more than inspiration. Years later, I found myself struggling. A career path crumbled beneath me, a relationship ended badly, and my confidence had hit rock bottom. I remembered the man with the newspapers. I thought about how small, invisible efforts can be the hardest to trust—because results are not immediate, and recognition is not guaranteed. Yet, he had shown me that those small efforts accumulate, slowly but inevitably, into a life that cannot be ignored. I started experimenting with this principle myself. Every morning, I wrote 500 words for my stories—even when tired, even when uninspired. I practiced my skills quietly, without posting or sharing. I did the work not for applause, but because it mattered to the person I wanted to become. Some days, it felt like nothing was happening. Some days, I wanted to give up. But then I remembered the man with the newspapers, and I kept showing up. It didn’t take long before I started noticing changes. The words I wrote flowed better, ideas connected in ways they never had before. People began noticing my work. Small victories became more frequent, and my confidence started to rebuild. What had seemed like meaningless, invisible effort had quietly transformed my life. That man never became famous. He never went viral. He had no thousands of followers, no awards, no recognition. But every paper he delivered, every smile he shared, every step he took in the rain—it all mattered. Each day of consistent effort built a life he owned completely, a life he could be proud of. I realized then that success is not a moment. It is not a sudden flash of recognition or a single lucky opportunity. Success is the sum of the quiet, consistent decisions we make when no one is watching. It’s the choice to wake up when it’s easier to sleep. It’s the decision to work when it’s easier to scroll on your phone. It’s the effort we put in when the world doesn’t applaud. And the truth is simple: showing up every day is more powerful than talent, motivation, or luck. Talent fades. Motivation fluctuates. But showing up—every single day, rain or shine—creates results you cannot imagine. Just like the man in the rain, your efforts may not be recognized immediately. People may overlook them, circumstances may feel unfair, progress may seem invisible. But over time, the cumulative effect of your daily effort will speak for itself. One day, the world will notice. One day, your consistency will transform your life. So, start today. Don’t wait for motivation. Don’t wait for inspiration. Show up. Every day. One small effort. One action. One step at a time. Let your grind be louder than your excuses. Because the man who never missed a day wasn’t special. He was ordinary. But through persistence, he became unstoppable. And so can you.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq6 days ago in Motivation
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.