The money she asked for wasn’t for herself. It was for us.
On the table beside the gifts was a handwritten note, carefully placed beneath a vase of her favorite daisies.
“I didn’t need the money for myself,” she wrote. “I wanted to leave everyone something small to remember me by — not because I’m leaving, but because love should always be shared while we still can.”
I sat at that kitchen table for hours, reading her words over and over, surrounded by the gentle hum of her old refrigerator and the faint scent of her homemade bread.
