As a teenager, I thought I knew everything.
Every winter, my mom wore the same old coat. The color had faded. The buttons didn’t even match. I hated walking next to her in public.
I wanted a stylish mom. Not one people might pity.
I begged her for a new coat.
She always said, “Next year.”
I assumed we just didn’t prioritize it.
Years passed. I grew up. Built a life.
And eventually, my mom passed away.
While cleaning out her closet, I pulled that same coat off the hanger. It felt heavier than I remembered.
Inside the lining, I found something sewn carefully into the fabric.
Receipts.
Savings slips.
Every extra dollar she had quietly tucked away.
The money was labeled—with my name.
She had skipped a new coat year after year so I could have school supplies. Field trips. Tuition help. A future.
“Next year” wasn’t a delay.
It was a sacrifice.
I folded the coat and held it against my chest, wishing I had walked beside her with pride instead of shame.
