And for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember her without drowning in it.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe books do talk.
Because tonight, it felt like she was still here—just quieter.
My eyes caught the corner of the blue folder of letters peeking out from the pile of documents on the table. My heart clenched. It was as though the universe was conspiring against my attempts to avoid dealing with my emotions. Those letters, written by Mom during her last days, held pieces of her heart, her love, and undoubtedly, her pain.
Tonight, I couldn’t avoid them any longer.
I sank into the chair, untying the ribbon carefully, almost reverently. The first letter trembled in my hands as I unfolded it.
“My dearest Manav,
By the time you read this, you will have grown into the incredible man I always knew you’d become. I hope you’re happy, and if not, I hope you’re brave enough to chase what makes you so. You’ve always had a fire in you—a spark that makes people gravitate toward you. Never lose that. Never let the world dim that light.
You were always strong, even as a little boy. I know you’ll find your way through anything. But strength isn’t just about fighting battles. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when to lean on someone else. Let people in, my son. Let them help you. It doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.”
My hands trembled as I turned the page. I could almost hear her voice, soft yet resolute, urging me to let go of the self-imposed isolation I had wrapped myself in for so many years.
Letter 2:
“Manav,
When you were ten years old, you won that silly school art contest. Do you remember how you told me you’d painted the picture for me? It was of a house—a home you said you’d build for me someday. I never told you, but I kept that painting. It’s still my favorite thing in the world.
You’ve always had a way of making people feel safe, even as a child. You wanted to protect everyone—me, your dad, even the neighborhood dog you used to sneak biscuits to. That’s one of the things I love most about you: your capacity to care.
I know the world can be cruel. I know it can make you question your goodness. But no matter what, never let it harden your heart. Your kindness is your strength. Wear it proudly.”
I ran my thumb over the corner of the letter, and the painting she mentioned flashed in my memory.
Letter 3:
“My darling boy,
There’s something you should know about love—it’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes downright terrifying. But it’s also the most beautiful thing you’ll ever experience. Don’t let fear keep you from it.
Walls don’t just keep pain out—they keep joy out too. One day, you’ll meet someone who will make you want to tear those walls down. Let her in, Manav. Love her with all your heart, with all your flaws, and with all your fears.
She won’t be perfect—and neither will you. But love isn’t about perfection—it’s about two imperfect people choosing each other every day. Don’t hold back, my son. Love is worth the risk.”
I exhaled sharply. I thought of Kiara—her laughter, her stubbornness, her vulnerability. The walls mom spoke of were still there, but cracks were forming, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stop them.
Letter 4:
“Manav,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to say these words to you myself. I want you to know that you’ve made my life so full. You were my greatest adventure, my greatest joy. No matter where life takes you, I’ll always be with you—in every sunset, in every quiet moment, in every choice you make.
Be kind to yourself, my son. Forgive yourself for the mistakes you think you’ve made. You’re only human, and that’s enough. That’s always been enough.
Life is short, Manav. Make it beautiful. I love you more than words can ever express. Always,
Mom.”
My hands shook as I held the second envelope, the one labeled“Mom is Sorry”in her familiar handwriting. The words stared back at me, heavier than they had any right to be. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for what lay inside, but something compelled me to carefully tear it open.
