"Forgiveness and Unconditional Love: A Daughter's Reflection on Borrowed Socks"

Dear Mom,

I hope this letter finds you well, wherever you may be. It's been twenty-seven years since that fateful day when I borrowed your socks and never returned them. I can still vividly remember the circumstances surrounding that small act of unintentional thievery. It's funny how such seemingly insignificant moments can stay with us for a lifetime.

That day, I found myself in the hospital, surrounded by the sterile smell of antiseptic and the coldness that seeped into my bones. My hands and feet were particularly affected by the chill, exacerbated by my Ryan's condition. After my shower, I hesitated to leave your side, even for a few minutes, to retrieve a fresh pair of socks from my suitcase at your house. In that moment of vulnerability and weariness, I made a decision that would unknowingly haunt me for years to come. I opened your locker and borrowed a pair of soft, cozy socks. They were off-white with a beautiful knitted pattern, a testament to their age and the memories they held. Those socks had likely accompanied you through countless moments and stories, serving as a constant comfort to your feet. And now, they had found their way into my sock drawer, a silent reminder of my unintended transgression.

But as I reflect on that day, Mom, I am reminded of the strength and selflessness that defined you. Your journey to palliative care shouldn't have come so early, and yet you faced it with unwavering courage and grace. Always thinking of others before yourself, you agreed to undergo one final round of chemotherapy, not for your own sake, but so you could be there for us, your children and grandchildren. The clinic had promised a room in the hospital where you could be watched over during your recovery, but they failed to follow through on that promise. Undeterred, you took the train back home alone, determined not to complain or burden anyone with your needs. That was simply not your style.

You were the caregiver, the one who magically appeared whenever any of us needed you. Your love and support were boundless, and I can still recall the countless times you arrived at the Via Rail terminal, lugging a tuna casserole for dinner along with your suitcase, ready to lend a helping hand, especially to your precious grandchildren. And even during the difficult times when Dad was battling Waldenstrom Leukemia, you were his rock, offering solace and support while also knowing when to give him a stern but loving talk during his bouts of intense depression.

After Dad's passing, as we navigated the grieving process and tried to adjust to life without him, you resumed your role as the one who always lent a helping hand. We managed to squeeze in some fun trips amidst the chaos, but then strange things started happening. Twisted ankles leading to broken bones, cancelled trips due to a debilitating case of shingles—it seemed as though life was determined to throw obstacles in your path. And then came the diagnosis: Multiple Myeloma, a painfully relentless cancer that affected your blood and bone marrow. Due to your age, transfusions were not a viable option, leaving you with only chemotherapy and pain medication to fight this battle.

Yet, even in the face of such adversity, you soldiered on with unwavering bravery, finding joy in your family and grandchildren. It was who you were—someone who rarely asked for help, always putting others before yourself. I remember vividly how one of your friends insisted on taking you grocery shopping, dragging you through three different stores to ensure she got the best deals. These outings left you exhausted, and in an effort to avoid them, you would secretly sneak off in a taxi to get your groceries. When your friend asked about it, you told her that your son had driven you, even though you didn't want to "bother" anyone. That was the kind of strong, kindhearted, and independent woman you were—a little spitfire with an immense heart.

It was this giving heart of yours that brought you prematurely to palliative care. Your desire to be there for us all, even in the midst of your own pain and suffering, led to that fateful evening when you went home after your final chemotherapy treatment. You collapsed in the bathroom, hitting your head, and my brother found you there, unconscious. You were rushed to the hospital, where it was discovered that you had suffered a small stroke. The family gathered, and after much discussion, we made the decision to move you to the palliative care wing.

In those final days, I moved into the unit with my small son, who was recovering from his tonsillectomy, while my thirteen-year-old daughter spent weekends with us. The older grandchildren took turns keeping watch, and your brother, bless his heart, took the four in the morning shift. We tried our best to create an environment that was light and normal, watching Disney movies, sharing bites of your favorite soft foods, and finding ways to laugh and joke together. We wanted you to feel loved and cherished until the very end.

And then came the day when you asked your friend, the priest, if it was okay to let go. His response was a simple nod and the words, "Yes Evelyn, it's okay to let go." Those words, filled with compassion and understanding, served as permission for you to find peace and release from the pain that had plagued you for far too long.

And so, with my thirteen-year-old daughter by your side, you struggled for breath, calling out for me. We witnessed that final deep breath you took, the one that never left your body. In that moment, as you peacefully slipped away, a part of me couldn't help but feel an overwhelming pang of guilt.

You see, Mom, in the midst of all that chaos, all the pain and exhaustion, you had mentioned that your feet were cold, and there were no more socks in your locker. It was then that I realized the socks I had borrowed all those years ago were the only ones you had left, and I had failed to wash and return them. It may seem like such a trivial thing, especially in the grand scheme of the challenges you faced, but for me, it became a symbol of my imperfections, my forgetfulness, and my inability to right a small wrong.

So, Mom, I want to take this opportunity to apologize from the depths of my heart for stealing your socks, even if it was unintentional. I can almost hear your laughter as you read this, your sense of humor shining through even in my guilt and remorse. You would remind me that life is full of imperfections, that mistakes happen, and that what truly matters is the love and connection we share.

In these twenty-seven years since you left us, I have carried that guilt with me, allowing it to weigh on my conscience. But now, as I pour my thoughts and emotions onto this paper, I hope that by acknowledging and apologizing for my mistake, I can find a measure of forgiveness and finally release that burden from my heart.

You were an incredible mother, Mom, and your memory continues to inspire and guide me in my own journey through life. Your love, strength, and selflessness remain etched in my soul, and I strive to honor your legacy every day. I miss you more than words can express, and I cherish the memories we created together.

Thank you for being the extraordinary woman you were, for teaching me the value of compassion, and for reminding me to embrace my quirks and imperfections