I often worry that my Mom felt she didn’t leave us with much when she went to Heaven.
She apologized so often about it—saying she wished she could have given us more, maybe a bigger house, a nicer car, or a bank account that could keep us comfortable even after she was gone. She said sorry so many times that I eventually lost count, as if each apology was a measure of her worth.
It was as if she believed that without material things to leave behind, her life hadn’t amounted to much—that her value was measured by bank accounts, fancy cars, or a piece of land. But looking back, I wish I could have told her something different.
I wish I had stopped, right in the middle of all the chaos that death brings—the stress, the grief, the regret—and just held her hand. I wish I could have told her that we didn’t need those fancy cars, because no new car could carry the memories we made in our beat-up Sentra: singing at the top of our lungs to drown out the hard days, or sitting in the driveway listening to the Delilah radio show, laughing and dreaming together.
I wish I could have reminded her of all the memories tucked away on our back porch—the talks, the laughter, the quiet moments that helped me figure out life’s problems. A big house might be nice, but that small place we called home was full of stories, full of love, and full of her. Those four walls told the story of us.
I wish I could have told her that a fat bank account would have been nice, but the truth is, what she left us was priceless. It couldn’t be written down or counted—it lives in our hearts forever. She left us with the power of small, meaningful acts: leaving change in a soda machine for someone in need, the value of a handwritten letter, the understanding that life isn’t about being better than anyone else, but about leaving people feeling better for having met you.
I wish I could have shown her that I saw it all—how she gave more than she had, loved fiercely even those who didn’t always deserve it, and faced Heaven with a smile, worrying about her children until her very last breath.
She left me more than she could have ever imagined. She left me everything I would ever need: a piece of her heart, her lessons, her love. That gift is worth more than any piece of land, any bank account, or any fancy car. She may not have left a material legacy, but she left something far greater—her spirit, her values, and her love, living on inside me
