That night, I couldn’t shake the guilt. I transferred her some money without asking what it was for. She replied with a simple heart emoji and a “Thank you, sweetheart.”

The next morning, she was gone. Peacefully, in her sleep.

When I went to her small house to help clean up, I froze the moment I stepped into her kitchen.

On the table were dozens of little gift boxes, neatly arranged in rows. Each one had a small golden ribbon and a name tag — mine, my parents’, my cousins’, even my uncle who hadn’t visited her in years.

Inside every box was something tiny but deeply personal — a keepsake, a photo, a small letter in her handwriting.

And suddenly, I understood.

That money wasn’t for her. It was her last gift to us — her way of saying goodbye.

I sat down