The next morning, when I entered her small kitchen to start sorting through her things, I froze. The table was covered with dozens of tiny gift boxes—each one tied neatly, labeled carefully, and arranged with the kind of precision only she had. Every family member had a box waiting for them, even those who hadn’t visited in years. Inside were personal treasures: handwritten letters, old photographs, little trinkets she had crafted by hand. That money I sent? It wasn’t for her. It was to finish creating these final gifts of love.

On top of my own box was a note in her delicate handwriting: “I didn’t need the money for myself. I just wanted to leave everyone something small to remember me by—not because