Love, Mom.”
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
Ben read the card twice.
Then he looked at the packages surrounding us.
“She knew,” I whispered.
“Knew what?”
I wiped my face.
“She knew she might not come home from the hospital.”
We carried all the packages inside.
There were twenty-eight in total.
Mom’s apartment looked exactly as she’d left it.
Her reading glasses rested beside the couch.
A half-finished sweater remained in her knitting basket.
Her favorite coffee mug stood on the kitchen counter.
For a moment, I could almost imagine her walking through the doorway.
Then Ben discovered a folded sheet of paper in the kitchen drawer.
Its title made us both stop.
“Packages for Claire and Ben.”
Beneath it, Mom had carefully listed dates, stores, and descriptions.
Claire’s birthday — blue mixing bowl.
Ben’s birthday — woodworking tools.
Christmas — two packages.
And at the bottom:
“Open together — last.”
Ben frowned.
“Woodworking tools? I haven’t made anything in years.”
But I remembered.
My brother had once dreamed of opening a furniture workshop.
After losing his job, he’d accepted exhausting work that left him with little time or energy for woodworking.
I’d also abandoned something important.
As a teenager, I loved designing clothes.
I’d even dreamed of studying fashion.
But life became busy, and after Mom grew ill, I spent most evenings helping her.
My sewing machine had been sitting untouched for years.
Then we opened another package.
Inside was a bundle of yellow floral fabric.
I recognized the pattern immediately.
When I was sixteen, I’d sewn Mom an apron using almost identical material.
The pocket had been crooked, but she’d worn it proudly for years.
“She remembered,” I whispered.
Ben smiled sadly.
“Mom remembered everything.”
Later that afternoon, we discovered a small notebook beside her bed.
It contained shopping lists, delivery dates, and handwritten observations.
“Ben says he’s fine, but he always looks tired.”
“Claire hasn’t mentioned sewing lately.”
“They spend so much time worrying about me. I wish they’d remember their own dreams.”
My eyes filled with tears again.
Then Ben turned another page.
“My children have put their lives on hold for me. I don’t want them to do that forever.”
Neither of us spoke.
Eventually, Ben admitted that he’d turned down a better job in another city because he couldn’t bear leaving Mom while she was sick.
I confessed that I’d stopped applying to design programs for the same reason.
We’d both sacrificed opportunities without telling each other.
