It was my 18th birthday, and I dreamed of a surprise — maybe a party, a cake, something special. Instead, my mom gave me her old, worn-out wallet. Its edges were frayed, the fabric faded, and it smelled faintly of her lavender lotion. I felt crushed.
I tossed that wallet into a drawer, upset and disappointed. I didn’t ask her what she meant when she softly offered: “If you want to talk about anything — we still have time.”
Months later she was gone. The house was silent. I opened the drawer, found the wallet, and something inside me broke. I pressed it to my face and cried. Inside was a childhood photo of me, missing front teeth, ribbons in my hair, smiling like sunshine. Behind it — a letter:
“Hi Muffin, I’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness…”
And a bank statement: a savings fund in my name. She had been quietly saving for me — preparing a future she knew she would never see.
I had discarded her silent love. At that moment I realized how much she loved me, how little I understood.