The retirement home.
They spoke softly, in a professional tone, as if to stifle the words. My mother had died in her sleep early that morning.
I remember sitting on the floor, my legs trembling. Forty days. That was all he had left after leaving the house. After leaving me.
They told me she had left me her plant. And a note.
To illustrate my point, I took the photos again a few days later. The plant was identical: green, vibrant, and thriving with fierce determination. The note was neatly folded, its handwriting neat and familiar.
"Look deep into the earth," he said.
"I'm sorry. I wish I could have given you more, but this is all I have..."
My hands trembled as I carried the plant home. I waited until the children were asleep before kneeling on the kitchen tiles and spreading old newspapers under the pot. I told myself not to expect anything. It was probably nothing—just one last habit, one last kind request.
I dug slowly, my fingers lightly touching the fresh, damp earth.
Suddenly, my hand hit something hard.
I froze.
At the bottom, there were three small plastic bags. In each of them, a few gold coins, tarnished by time, but undeniably authentic.
Three bags.
Three children.
Sitting on the ground, my hands covered in dirt, the plant overturned beside me, I burst into sobs so deep they took my breath away. I had no idea these pieces existed. No idea he had kept them, hidden them, protected them.
For example,
He could have used that money. He could have made his last days more comfortable. He could have asked for better care, better food, perhaps even to stay at home a little longer.
But he didn't do it.
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