My mom showed up at my office in a shabby old suit with homemade lunch. I snapped at her, embarrassed in front of important investors, and told her to leave. She didn’t argue—just smiled with tears, gave me the food, and walked away.
Two months later she died suddenly. At her funeral, all I could see was that moment in the hallway. When I cleaned out her tiny apartment, I found that same suit. I wanted to throw it away, but discovered hundreds of hidden pockets sewn inside, each filled with cash and notes about her sacrifices to help me. She hadn’t bought new clothes in over twenty years—every saving was sewn into the suit.
At the back was a letter dated the day she came to my office. She confessed she wore the suit because it was the only thing that made her feel professional, explained how she’d been saving for me since I was a child, and hoped it would help my career.
I broke down, seeing how I’d judged her by her clothes instead of her love. In the last pocket I found a key and a storage facility card—leading to something more I hadn’t yet opened.