I hadn’t expected anything from her estate, so nothing surprised me.

But the following day, her son called—furious, confused, practically shouting.

While going through one of the old boxes his mother had left behind, he’d discovered a letter.

It wasn’t addressed to him.

It was addressed to me.

In it, she thanked me for being patient and gentle with her during her weakest moments.

She explained that she couldn’t change her will without stirring up more trouble, but she wanted me to know that what I gave her meant more than anything she could have passed down.

She wrote that I had been her comfort, her steady presence, her sense of peace at the end.

But that wasn’t why her son was upset.

Inside the same box were receipts, notes, and old photographs—evidence that she had once planned to create a small trust for him.

She never completed the paperwork. Instead, she spent her final months trying to mend things between them, something he never realized until he read her written regrets.