That night, when I got home, I placed the remaining half of the Hershey’s bar on my kitchen table and stared at it for a long time. I expected the loneliness to rush back in once the day was over—but it didn’t. Instead, there was a quiet calm, like the feeling after a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
I replayed Daniel’s words over and over. My mother—my gentle, familiar, coffee-loving mom—had lived an entire chapter of bravery I never knew. She hadn’t just raised me. She had lifted someone else out of the dark and asked nothing in return except faith in the future.
That night, I reread her letter three times. I cried into it. I laughed at her jokes scribbled in the margins. And for the first time since her diagnosis, I stopped asking why she was taken so fast. Some people don’t stay long because they leave echoes behind.
The next morning, I went back to the park alone. I sat on the bench, brushed snow off the seat, and whispered, “I get it now.”
I’ve decided December 20th will never disappear. I’ll keep the tradition—maybe with a friend, maybe with a stranger, maybe alone. I’ll bring the chocolate. I’ll bring the coffee. I’ll sit beneath that oak tree and remember that love doesn’t end when someone leaves.
It just changes shape.
And every year, when I take that photo, I know she’ll be right there—smiling, watching, and quietly reminding me that everything is still okay.
