She leaned forward.

Picked up the box.

And walked toward the trash.

“Laura…” I tried to say.

But it came too late.

She opened the lid.

And without hesitation—

Dumped everything out.

The sound was sharp. Eggs cracking, bags crushing, the jar rolling and hitting the bottom.

In seconds, it was over.

She closed the lid, washed her hands, and said calmly:

“That’s better.”

I stood there, frozen, staring at the trash can.

I didn’t even know what hurt more—the smell still lingering in the air…

or everything that had just been thrown away with it.

Later, something caught my eye inside the trash.

A small edge of paper, barely visible.

I crouched down, opened the lid slowly, and pulled it out.

It was an envelope.

With my name on it.

My mother’s handwriting.

My chest tightened.

I opened it carefully.

“Son…”

That was enough to make me swallow hard before continuing.

She wrote about the food she had sent—how fresh the eggs were, how she prepared the fish the way I used to like, how she made the salsa mild so my child could enjoy it too.

She apologized if anything arrived dirty. Said she cleaned it as best she could. Said she thought of us while packing everything.

She asked about Laura.

Sent her greetings.

Said she didn’t know if she would like the food—but it was sent with love.

Then she wrote that she was getting tired more easily now, though she didn’t like resting.

And at the end:

“If you have time, call me. You don’t need to visit—I know you’re busy. Just hearing your voice is enough. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

I stood there, holding the letter, everything around me feeling distant.

Laura walked over.

“What is it?”

I didn’t answer.

I just handed her the letter.

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