My sick mother was still thinking of us.
That night, I held the plant against my chest like it was the last piece of her I had left. I whispered apologies into the empty house. I told her I was sorry for not visiting more. Sorry for choosing convenience over compassion. Sorry for not holding her hand when she needed it most.
I wish she were here so I could hold her now.
But all I have are three small bags of coins, a living plant, and a lesson I learned far too late: a mother’s love doesn’t stop, even when we fail her.
