My mother had one simple request: come have coffee with her on Sundays.
Almost every week, she would call and ask the same thing.
And almost every week, I had an excuse.
Work was hectic. I had errands. I was tired. I always believed there would be another Sunday.
Then one morning, she sent me a photo.
It showed her kitchen table with two coffee cups and an empty chair across from her.
Underneath, she wrote, “Saved your seat again.”
I smiled when I saw it, but I still didn’t go.
That evening, my aunt called.
Mom had passed away suddenly.
A few days later, I finally went to her house.
Everything looked exactly as I remembered it.
Then I noticed a wooden box beside her chair.
Inside were 52 sealed envelopes.
Every one had my name and a date written across the front.
One for every Sunday of the past year.
I opened the first.
It wasn’t angry.
Mom had simply written about her week, something funny she remembered about me, and what she would have told me if I’d been sitting across from her.
Every envelope ended the same way:
“Maybe next Sunday.”
I sat at her kitchen table and read until I couldn’t see through the tears.
For a year, I had thought I was postponing coffee.
I didn’t realize I was missing conversations I would spend the rest of my life wishing I could have back.
