When I was a kid, my mom always tucked me in under the same quilt. Near one corner, there was a rough little patch that didn’t quite fit—plaid against soft florals. I used to ask her about it, and she’d just smile and say, “That part’s special.”
After she passed away last year, I was sorting through her things when I found a photo of a man I didn’t recognize—tall, smiling, with his arms around her like they belonged together. Tucked behind it was an old, yellowed note. The handwriting wasn’t hers.
“I’ll always love you. No matter what we choose.”
I read it over and over, hands shaking. The date on the back? April 1989—three months before I was born.
My mom raised me on her own. She always said my dad “wasn’t in the picture.” I assumed he’d just left. It had always been the two of us. She worked long shifts at the pharmacy, made birthdays feel magical with cupcakes and dollar-store decorations. Life was simple, but she made it feel rich.
And that quilt—always there. It went with me from childhood to college and came back when I moved home to care for her in her final year. That odd little patch? I used to run my fingers over it when I couldn’t sleep.
Now, everything looked different.
The next morning, I started going through her old boxes. Most held random things—receipts, junk mail, my crayon drawings from kindergarten. Then, under a winter coat, I found a worn shoebox tied with ribbon.
Inside were letters.
All addressed to my mom—“Celeste.” The return address was from a town in Wisconsin I’d never heard of: Brighton Hill. The sender’s name was Dominic.
The first letter dated back to 1987.
He wrote about meeting her at a wedding. About her laugh. Her red shoes. How he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The letters were tender and filled with longing—but also sorrow. He was married. He had a child. But he said no one had ever made him feel the way she did.
I read every word.
Some letters dreamed of escape. Others were full of guilt. But all of them spoke of deep, enduring love. And the final one, written in July 1989, said:
“You were right. This is for the best. I’ll respect your choice. But please—keep something of mine. Something small. So I can always be close to you.”
That patch on the quilt.
I sat on her bedroom floor, clutching that blanket like it held all the answers.
For days afterward, I drifted through the house in a daze, replaying every bedtime, every story, every time she brushed my hair and whispered that I was her whole world.
Now I wonder how much she gave up to give me that kind of love.