When I was ten, my mother left me in foster care, giving no explanation and never checking in. I grew up learning to survive alone, moving through foster homes, and eventually building a life with college, a steady job, a husband, and a son.
Seventeen years later, at 27, she called me, seriously ill, asking for help. I took her in, cared for her, and listened at her bedside. Two weeks later, she died, leaving behind a bag with a single key and an address.
The address led me to a tiny flat filled with photographs of my life—childhood, graduation, wedding, and my son. She had been secretly watching me all these years. In the flat, I found a letter from her explaining she stayed away because she believed I was better off without her, but she wanted to witness my life from a distance. She expressed pride and hoped for forgiveness.
Though brief, those two weeks with her became precious memories I would carry forever.