My hands were shaking. I pried off the lid.
There were no sewing needles.
Inside, stacked in neat, rubber-banded bundles, were hundreds of dollars. Benjamins. Fifties. Twenties. Underneath the cash were Certificates of Deposit (CDs) and savings bonds in my name.
I stared at her, confused.
“Mom… what is this?”
She sat down and covered my hand with her calloused, working hands.
“Jimmy,” she said softly. “From the first month you sent me that money, I was terrified. You were living so fast, son. The fancy cars, the vacations, the photos of those dinners… it was all so loud.”
She took a breath. “I lived through the bad times in the 70s. I remember when your father got laid off in the 80s. I know that in this country, the higher you fly, the harder the ground feels when you fall. I knew this day might come.”
I started counting. It was all there. Every single dollar I had sent her.
She hadn’t spent a dime on herself. She kept washing Ziploc bags. She kept wearing the old coat. She kept the heat at 62 degrees. She accepted my insults and my silence for two years, letting me believe she was a bitter, stingy old woman.
