I sat cross-legged on the carpet of my mother’s room, surrounded by the remnants of her life — keepsakes that still smelled faintly of lavender and heartbreak.
Her favorite sweater rested in my lap, worn thin at the elbows. I pulled it close, breathing her in. The scent, though faded, cracked something open inside me. Tears welled up again. I didn’t fight them.
Next to me lay her infamous sweatpants — patched so many times they were more stitching than fabric. They looked like a mosaic of every hard year she’d lived.
Neil hovered in the doorway, quiet as a shadow. He crouched beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said. “We’ll get through it together.”
I gave a weak nod, swiping at my cheeks. “Every little thing brings her back, you know? Even these sweatpants.”
“She could’ve bought new ones,” Neil said, inspecting the faded patches, “but she kept these?”
“Because we weren’t always wealthy,” I said. “She worked herself to the bone — cleaning, nursing, whatever she could. Then that inheritance showed up, and everything changed.”
“She never told you where it came from?”