I asked my mother to leave her home when she was seventy-two years old.
At the time, I told myself I was being practical. The house had been left to me by my father, clearly stated in his will. After he passed away, everything felt settled on paper, even if emotions were still complicated. My three children were growing quickly, and our home felt increasingly crowded. Toys filled the hallways, backpacks piled up by the door, and quiet moments were rare. We needed space—or at least that’s what I believed.
When I explained the situation to my mother, she listened calmly. I braced myself for tears, anger, or resistance.
None came.
She offered a small, tired smile and said quietly, “I will only take my plant with me.”
That should have made me pause. It didn’t.
Trying to move the conversation along, I asked where she wanted to go. She looked at me kindly and said, “Please take me to the least expensive nursing home. I know money is tight, and I don’t want to be a burden.”
I agreed, relieved that she wasn’t asking for more.
The day she left, she carried only a small bag and the green potted plant she had cared for every morning for years. I didn’t help her to the car. I told myself she was strong. I told myself I would visit soon.
I didn’t.
Life quickly filled the space she left behind. The children spread out into new rooms, and the house became louder and busier. Yet something felt missing. Occasionally, I noticed the empty corner where she used to sit or found myself listening for familiar sounds that never came. I pushed those feelings aside. It felt easier not to dwell on them.
Forty days later, my phone rang.
The nursing home called to tell me my mother had passed away peacefully in her sleep.
I remember sitting down because my legs suddenly felt weak. Forty days. That was all the time she had after leaving her home.
Before ending the call, they told me she had left something for me—her plant, and a note.
When I picked them up, the plant looked healthy and full of life. The note was short, written in her careful handwriting.
“Please look inside the soil,” it said.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more.”
Later that night, after the house was quiet, I placed newspapers on the kitchen floor and gently removed the plant from its pot. I didn’t expect anything. I thought it might simply be one of her habits or symbolic gestures.
As I reached deeper into the soil, my fingers touched something solid.
Buried at the bottom were three small plastic bags. Inside each were a few gold coins, worn with time but clearly valuable.
Three bags.
One for each of my children.
I sat there in silence, soil on my hands, and finally allowed myself to cry. I had never known about the coins. She must have been saving them quietly, thinking ahead, planning for her grandchildren.
She could have used that money for herself. She could have chosen better care or more comfort.
Instead, she chose them.
Even after I had asked her to leave. Even after I failed to show up the way I should have.
That night, I held the plant close and felt the weight of a lesson I learned too late: a parent’s love continues, even when we fall short.
I wish she were still here so I could tell her how sorry I am.
Now, all I have is a living plant, three small bags of coins, and a reminder that compassion should never be postponed.
