Do you love your mother? For me, the answer was complicated. I often dreaded coming home to my mom Charlotte’s barrage of questions. “Where were you, Eddie? Why are you late?” Her constant concern suffocated me. If only I had known then how much I would miss those moments.
In autumn 2021, I was 17 and craving independence. Every day was the same: I’d come home late, and she’d be waiting, worried sick. One night, after another late outing, our conversation escalated. “You’re grounded,” she said, taking my car keys. I protested, but she was firm.
The next morning, my car was gone. Panic set in when I learned she’d moved it to her storage unit as a lesson in responsibility. Furious, I decided to retrieve it. I snuck into her room for the keys and drove to the unit, filled with determination.
A pile of gift-wrapped boxes | Source: Midjourney
But when I opened the door, I froze. Inside were dozens of neatly labeled gift-wrapped boxes with my name on them: “18th birthday,” “Graduation,” “First job,” “Wedding,” and more. I opened one, finding a brown leather jacket I had wanted for months. Another held letters addressed to me, all in her handwriting.
The truth hit me hard. Mom wasn’t punishing me; she was preparing for a time when she might not be around. My anger melted into guilt as I realized how blind I had been to her struggles.
When I returned home, I quietly handed back the keys. That night, I hugged her tightly, something I hadn’t done in years. “I love you, Mom. You’re my rock,” I said.
The following months were different. We spent time together, cooking, watching movies, and cherishing each moment. One evening, she told me, “I’m sick, honey. It’s not getting better.” I squeezed her hand, promising her she would never be a burden.
Our time together was filled with laughter and stories, and she remained strong until the end. She slipped away in her sleep, leaving me heartbroken.
On my 18th birthday, I opened the box she had prepared. Wearing the leather jacket, I read her heartfelt letter, her love pouring through every word.
It’s been two years, and I still have those boxes. Sometimes I think about opening another one, but I hesitate, saving her for later.
Mom taught me that love doesn’t end with death. It lives on in memories and in the lessons we’ve learned. Cherish every moment with your mother. One day, you may find yourself wishing for just one more hug, one more chance to say “I love you.”
Love you, Mom. Forever & Ever. 
