My mom showed up at my office with a homemade pie, wearing an old secondhand dress. I snapped, “That dress is ugly, the pie is stupid. Don’t embarrass me—just leave.” She walked away quietly, tears in her eyes.
Two weeks later, my mom passed away.
In her house, that same dress was lying in plain sight. I went to throw it away—and froze when I noticed the pocket was heavier than it should have been.
Inside, there was an envelope with my name written in her careful, familiar handwriting.
My hands started to shake before I even opened it.
I’m sorry if I ever embarrass you, the note began. I know I don’t always fit into your world. I just wanted your coworkers to see how proud I am of you. I made your favorite pie. I hoped maybe you’d smile at me the way you used to when you were little.
There was something else in the envelope—a photo of us at my kindergarten graduation. She was wearing that same dress, younger, glowing, holding my hand while I beamed at the camera like she hung the moon.
I sank to the floor and cried harder than I ever had in my life.
I would give anything to be embarrassed by her again.
