Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey’s bar, two coffees, the same park bench. She died in October. When I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey’s bar. He said, “Your mom kept a secret from you.”
The machines beside Mom’s bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.
I was sitting in the hard plastic chair, rubbing lotion into my mother’s hands the way the nurse showed me. Her skin felt thinner than it should. Fragile.
Then Mom cleared her throat.
I looked up.
Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair thinner than it had been two weeks ago.
Her lips pressed together. She stared at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there in the water stains and fluorescent lights.
My chest tightened. “Mom?”
She turned her head toward me.
Her eyes were tired, but calm… like she’d already made peace with something I didn’t know about.
My stomach did a somersault. We were entering dangerous territory now. I could feel it.
Promises you make in a hospital room to your dying mother aren’t the kind you break later.
“Promise what?”
“That when the time comes, you’ll listen to your heart. Not your anger, not anyone else’s guilt, not even what you think I would’ve wanted. Do what you think is right.”
She gave a faint smile. “I’m not trying to.”
What did she mean by “when the time comes”? What time? What choice was she preparing me for?
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, I thought she’d fallen asleep. Her breathing had that slow, shallow quality it got when the pain medication kicked in.
Then she opened them again and changed the subject completely.
The words hit harder than I expected.
For my entire life, my mother and I shared one perfect pre-Christmas tradition every December 20th.
We would buy the largest milk chocolate Hershey’s bar available, get two coffees, and walk to the exact same bench beneath an old oak tree in the park.
We would divide the chocolate, sip coffee, and take our traditional selfie.
Every single year. Same location. Same candy. Same ridiculous grins as we pretended we weren’t freezing our faces off.
I had photos going back to when I was six years old.
Me with gap teeth and a terrible haircut.
Me as a sullen teenager who thought the tradition was stupid but showed up anyway.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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