There’s a trust fund for each child.
And there’s enough money for you to live comfortably without ever having to work again.
Please… stop working, Mom.
You’ve done enough for all of us.
Take care of yourself.
And take care of my babies.
I know it’s a lot to ask.
But there’s one more thing.”
My heart tightened.
There’s more?
I reached back into the box and found the cloth-wrapped item.
Carefully, I unwrapped it.
Inside was a small wooden music box.
I recognized it instantly.
It was Emily’s childhood music box—the one I used to wind every night to help her fall asleep.
My chest ached.
I opened it.
The familiar melody filled the room.
And inside, tucked beneath the lid, was a tiny photo.
It was of the five of us—me, Emily, her husband, and the four children—taken just a year ago.
Everyone was smiling.
Happy.
Complete.
I went back to the letter, barely able to see through my tears.
“When things feel overwhelming, open the music box.
Remember that you’re not alone.
I’m always with you.
And Mom… thank you.
For everything.
For raising me.
For loving me.
And now… for loving them.
You’re the strongest person I know.
I love you.
Always,
Emily.”
I sat there for a long time.
The letter in my hands.
The music box playing softly.
The house filled with memories.
That evening, when the children came home, I held them a little tighter.
Lucas noticed first.
