I stood there holding that worn old coat, realizing how blind I’d been as a teenager. What I once saw as embarrassment was actually love in its purest form. My mother’s mismatched buttons and faded sleeves weren’t signs of neglect—they were quiet proof of the sacrifices she made so I could walk through life feeling cared for, warm, and proud. Every loose thread was a story of her choosing me over herself.
Continues…





