On my 18th birthday I expected something big—maybe a party or a thoughtful gift. So when my mom gave me her old, worn-out wallet, I felt crushed. I hid my disappointment, she just smiled gently and said, “If you want to talk about anything, we still have time.” I didn’t ask what she meant.
A few months later, she was gone.
When I finally opened that forgotten wallet, I found a childhood photo of me and a letter revealing she’d been secretly dying. She’d also saved money for me in a bank account, building it quietly while hiding her pain. She had loved me silently—and I’d thrown her love in a drawer.