I was ten when my mom passed away, but I still remember the sound of her sewing machine humming late into the night. She was making me a Halloween dress—purple velvet with silver stars, just like I’d imagined. I didn’t know she was dying. She smiled through the pain, saying, “You’ll be the prettiest witch on the block.” I wore that dress proudly, not knowing it was her final gift. Days later, she was gone. Cancer took her quietly, but her love stayed stitched into every seam. I couldn’t bear to pack it away. It became my treasure.
Years later, I found the dress in a box while moving. I held it close, inhaling the faint scent of lavender she always wore. Something crinkled in the hem. I reached in and pulled out a tiny folded note. Her handwriting—familiar, shaky—read: “I love you more than the moon and stars. Be brave, my little witch.” I collapsed, sobbing. That note had waited for me all those years. Her final words, hidden in velvet, wrapped around my heart like a hug from beyond.
I framed the note and placed it beside her photo. Every Halloween, I light a candle and wear something purple. It’s my way of honoring her. That dress wasn’t just fabric—it was love, resilience, and memory. I’ve never sewn a costume myself, but I tell my daughter stories about her grandma, the woman who stitched magic into a child’s life. My daughter once asked, “Did Grandma know she was going to die?” I said, “She knew—but she wanted me to feel joy, not fear.”
Grief is strange. It sneaks up in the scent of lavender, the flicker of a candle, the rustle of old fabric. But so does love. My mom didn’t leave me with wealth or letters—she left me with a dress. And inside it, a message that still guides me. I’ve faced heartbreak, motherhood, and change. But every time I feel lost, I remember her words: “Be brave.” And I am.
So yes, my mom sewed me a Halloween dress days before she died. But what she really gave me was courage stitched into velvet, and a love that never unraveled.
