2 years later, my mother di:e:d, and my daughter got a call from an unknown number. Her face turned pale when she realized it was my mother’s lawyer. He said she needed to come urgently to sign some papers and collect some of her belongings.
My heart dropped when I discovered an old suitcase full of drawings—my childhood doodles, all neatly kept—as well as the small art projects I had done in school. All this time, I thought my mother didn’t care about me,
and I was wrong. I am devastated that she wanted to reconcile, and I didn’t give her a chance. But at least my daughter was better than me; she grew close to her in her final years.
