“Today is June 6. I am over 80 years old, which means I’ve lived for more than eight decades. Over that time, I gave birth to four sons and helped raise eight grandchildren. Altogether, I have spent my life nurturing 12 people. Because of this, I thought I understood my children well.”
“Especially after your father passed away a few years ago, I began to notice a change in how you treated me—there was less patience, less warmth. Still, I had hoped that one of you would take me home to live with your family. I longed for company and to feel part of your lives. But two months passed and none of you came. That’s when I realized you didn’t have that intention.”
“I’m grateful that you didn’t neglect me completely. Each of you visited once a week. And while that helped ease the loneliness at night, I still felt a deep emptiness.”
“What scares me most at this age is not illness or death—it’s being alone.”
“I know you took turns caring for me for one year and nine months, which adds up to about 630 days. I am thankful for that. But during that time, your faces were always stern. You barely spoke when you arrived or when you left. It was as if I were just a stranger you were obliged to check in on—like I was just part of a duty, not your mother.”
“I didn’t burden you with my needs—I didn’t eat your food, wear your clothes, or ask for your money. Still, being around me seemed to weigh on you, like visiting me was a debt you were forced to repay.”
“Sometimes, even when I wasn’t feeling well or thinking clearly, you’d still leave at night without anyone staying. That loneliness was worse than anything I had ever felt.”
“You spent 630 days with me after your father’s passing, and for that I’m grateful. But now, I know I’ll walk the rest of the path alone.”
“You all came to my 80th birthday and wished me 100 more years, but I just smiled to myself…”
“My heart condition has been getting worse. I haven’t told you because I didn’t have the strength to. But part of me hopes the illness will take me soon so I can be with your father again. I dreamed of him recently—he smiled at me and said, ‘You’ll come with me soon. You won’t be alone anymore.’ I woke up to a starry night and a full, glowing moon, hoping that dream would come true.”
“I wrote this letter because I know I don’t have much time left. My hair has turned white, and my body has grown frail. I want to thank you again for the 630 days you cared for me. But I must also say something that may hurt:”
“I regret giving birth to you. If there is another life, I hope we are not mother and sons again.”
“Still, as your mother, I wish each of you happiness. I hope your eight children will never abandon you the way I have felt abandoned.”
“This letter is where I say goodbye, to everything.”
A few days after writing those words, the elderly mother was found peacefully passed away in her bed. In her hand, she held the only photo she had of herself and her late husband—a quiet farewell from a heart that had endured more than it let on.