I craved adventure and freedom, but it came at the cost of my mother’s tears. One day, she put my car in her storage unit to punish me for coming home late. I did what any 17-year-old would do: I stole the keys to retrieve my car. But what I found shattered my heart.
I often dreaded coming home to my mom, Charlotte’s, questions: “Where were you, Eddie? Why are you late?” I couldn’t understand her constant concern. If only I’d known what was really happening, I would’ve given anything to hear her scold me again.
One evening, I came home late, and she confronted me. “You’re grounded, and I’m taking your car keys.” I protested, but she turned away. The next morning, my car was gone. “Mom! My car’s missing!”
“I moved it. You’ll get it back when you show responsibility.” Furious, I planned to sneak into her storage unit, knowing it had to be there. After she left for a doctor’s appointment, I found the keys and raced to the unit.
But when I opened the door, I froze. Boxes, dozens of them, gift-wrapped and labeled with my name and future dates: “18th birthday,” “Graduation,” “First job,” “Wedding,” and “Baby Shower?” My stomach dropped. I opened the box for my 18th birthday. Inside was a brown leather jacket—the exact one I’d wanted. How did she know?
I opened another box, labeled “Graduation.” It was full of letters, all in her handwriting. The truth hit me: Mom was sick. She wasn’t punishing me; she was preparing for a time when she wouldn’t be there to see my milestones.
I don’t know how long I sat there, crying. When I finally left, I wasn’t the same person. I returned her keys and slipped quietly back into the house. That night, I hugged her tightly. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She smiled, searching my eyes. “Of course I know that, sweetie. I love you too.” We spent time together, and for the first time in months, we laughed.
One night on the porch swing, she said, “Eddie, there’s something I need to tell you.” I braced myself. “I’m sick, and it’s not getting better.”
I squeezed her hand. “I know, Mom. How long have you known?” She sighed, looking away. “A while. I didn’t want to burden you.”
In the following months, we made the most of our time. She told me stories and taught me to cook. Then, the day I dreaded came. Mom slipped away in her sleep, a small smile on her face.
On my 18th birthday, I opened the box she’d left for me. I put on the leather jacket and read her letter: “If you’re reading this, I’m not there to celebrate. But I’m with you, always. I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.”
It’s been two years, and I still have those boxes. Some days, I think about opening another one but stop myself. I’m saving Mom for later, piece by piece.
To those who’ve just finished reading my story, I have one request: go hug your mother. Cherish her while you can. You might find yourself wishing for just one more hug, one more chance to say “I love you.”
Love you, Mom. Forever.
