I made my mom move out of her house when she was 72.
I remember standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, telling myself I was being sensible, not mean. The house had been left to me by my father. It was clearly written in his will, so after he died, everything felt settled—at least on paper. My three kids were growing up fast. Toys filled the halls, school bags were everywhere, and the house was always noisy. We needed more space, and that was the reason I kept telling myself.
My mother listened quietly while I explained everything. I thought she would cry, get angry, or argue with me.
But she didn’t.
She just gave a small, tired smile and said, “I will only bring my plant.”
That should have made me stop, but it didn’t.
I asked her where she wanted to go, already feeling uneasy and wanting the talk to end.
She looked at me kindly and said, “Take me to the cheapest nursing home. I know you don’t make much money, and I don’t want you to spend it all on me.”
When she said the word “sick,” I felt uncomfortable. I nodded and agreed, feeling relieved that she wasn’t asking for anything more. Relieved that she was making things easy for me.
On the day she left, she walked out slowly, carrying only a small old bag and the green plant she had watered every morning for years. I didn’t help her to the car. I told myself she was strong enough. I told myself I would visit soon.
I didn’t.
Life went on in the space she left. The kids moved into new rooms. The house felt busier, louder—but also strangely empty. Sometimes I noticed the corner where her chair used to be, or found myself listening for the quiet clink of her teacup at night. I pushed those thoughts away. Feeling guilty was too uncomfortable.
Forty days later, my phone rang.
It was the nursing home.
They spoke kindly and professionally, as if trying to soften the news. My mother had died in her sleep that morning.
I remember collapsing to the floor because my legs couldn’t hold me. She only had forty days after leaving her home. After leaving me.
They told me she had left her plant for me. And a note.
I picked them up a few days later. The plant looked the same—green, alive, stubbornly growing. The note was folded neatly, her handwriting careful and familiar.
“Search inside the soil,” it said.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more, but this is all I have…”
My hands shook as I brought the plant home. I waited until the kids were asleep, then knelt on the kitchen floor, putting old newspapers under the pot. I told myself not to expect anything. It was probably nothing—just one last habit of hers, one last gentle request.
I dug slowly, my fingers brushing the cool, damp soil.
Then I hit something hard.
I froze.
At the very bottom were three small plastic bags. Each had a few gold coins, a little tarnished but definitely real.
Three bags.
Three children.
I sat there on the floor, dirt on my hands, the plant tipped over beside me, and cried so hard I could barely breathe. I had no idea those coins existed. I didn’t know she’d been saving them—hiding them—protecting them.
She could have used that money for herself. She could have made her last days easier, asked for better care or food, or stayed home a little longer.
But she didn’t.
She chose my children instead—their future. Even after I had taken her home away, even after I had been cold, selfish, and “practical” to the point of being cruel.
My sick mother was still thinking of us.
That night, I held the plant to my chest like it was the last piece of her I had left. I whispered apologies into the empty house. I said sorry for not visiting more. Sorry for putting convenience over kindness. Sorry for not holding her hand when she needed it most.
I wish she were here so I could hold her now.
But all I have are three small bags of coins, a living plant, and a lesson I learned too late: a mother’s love doesn’t end, even when we fail her.