A Final Gift of Love
It’s been five years since Michael died, but some days it feels like it happened just yesterday. Sometimes, I smile when I think about him. Other times, the memories hurt so much, like an old wound that never really heals. Michael wasn’t just my husband—he was my best friend, my biggest supporter, and the one who held our little family together. When he died, it felt like I’d lost a part of myself.
Raising our son, Daniel, all on my own hasn’t been easy. I’ve worked so hard—sometimes two jobs at once—just to pay the bills and keep food on the table. But Daniel made it all worth it. He’s been my rock. He was only eight when we lost Michael, but even then, he was so grown up in the way he handled everything. He amazes me every single day.
Michael always had this special way of looking at life. He used to say that kindness was like sunlight—you don’t measure it, you just give it away. He’d help anyone who needed it: fixing our neighbor’s old car, shoveling snow for the elderly couple next door, or just sitting and listening to someone who needed to talk. And he always did it with a big smile.
I remember asking him once, “Why do you help so many people when you know they might never pay you back?”
He just laughed and said, “Because it’s not about getting something in return. Kindness always comes back around, one way or another.”
Even when he was lying in that hospital bed, so sick and weak, he never stopped believing that people were good. He’d squeeze my hand and whisper, “We’ve had a good life, haven’t we? And people are good. Don’t ever forget that.”
Since then, five Christmases have come and gone. Each one is bittersweet. Daniel and I have made our own new traditions, and we do our best to fill our house with laughter and love. But Michael’s empty chair at the table always reminds me he’s gone.
This Christmas morning started like any other. I’d saved every extra penny to buy Daniel a new phone. His old one hardly worked anymore, and I knew how happy a new one would make him.
When he unwrapped it, his face lit up. “Mom! This is awesome!” he shouted and threw his arms around my neck.
I laughed. “I know it’s not the newest model, but—”
“Mom, it’s perfect. Thank you so much!” he said, shaking his head. His joy made all those late nights at work worth it.
“You’re worth it, Daniel,” I whispered, hugging him tight.
Then he pulled back and grinned at me with that mischievous smile of his. “Okay, Mom! My turn now. I’ve got something for you.”
He handed me a small box, wrapped neatly in shiny paper. Inside was a back massager—simple but so thoughtful.
“I figured you could use this after all those long days at work,” he said.
“Oh, Daniel, it’s perfect. Thank you, honey,” I said, hugging him again.
But then I noticed his face change. He looked serious all of a sudden. “Mom,” he said quietly, “there’s one more thing.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, beat-up cigar box. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it.
“What’s this?” I asked. My voice was just a whisper now.
Daniel held it out to me, his eyes shiny with tears. “Dad gave it to me before he… you know. He told me to keep it safe and to give it to you… today.”
My hands shook as I took the box. It felt heavy, like it was holding more than just objects—it was holding memories, love, hope. I slowly lifted the lid.
Inside was a folded note, written in Michael’s handwriting, and a bank card. Just seeing his writing made my eyes fill with tears. I unfolded the paper and read:
My Love,
If you’re reading this, then I’m no longer with you. I can only imagine how hard these years have been, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help. But I wanted to leave you something to make things a little easier.
Over the years, I helped a lot of people. I always told them the same thing: if they ever wanted to pay me back, they could send something to this account. I never expected much, but I believed in people’s kindness.
I hope this helps you and Daniel start fresh. Know that I love you both more than words can say.
Forever yours,
Michael
By the time I finished reading, tears were pouring down my cheeks. I pressed the note to my heart, feeling Michael’s love wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
“Mom,” Daniel said softly, “are you okay?”
I wiped my tears away and nodded. “Your dad… he was incredible.”
The next day, Daniel and I went to the bank together. I handed the teller the bank card and explained everything. She looked at me with wide eyes.
“Ma’am,” she said, her voice trembling just a bit, “there’s $400,000 in this account.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I gasped.
She nodded kindly. “It’s all here. Would you like to see the transaction history?”
Still in shock, I nodded. She printed out a long list. Name after name appeared on that paper—hundreds of people, each one sending something to say thank you for Michael’s kindness all those years ago. He’d helped so many people, and they’d never forgotten. His kindness had come back around, just like he said it would.
Daniel looked up at me, his eyes wide with pride. He whispered, “Dad was right. Kindness always comes back around.”
That night, we curled up on the couch together. I held Daniel close and kissed his forehead. My tears fell again, but this time they were warm and full of hope.
“Your dad,” I said softly, “he never stopped looking out for us.”
Daniel gave me a sleepy smile. “I think he’d be happy, Mom. He’d be proud of you.”
I hugged him even tighter. “He’d be proud of both of us.”
That Christmas, we got more than just presents. We got a reminder that love never really dies. And Michael’s final gift showed us that even when someone is gone, their kindness can live on forever.
What do you think of Michael’s final gift? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
