PART 4 – The Truth Behind the €400
I read Marco’s message several times.
“Mama, I need to tell you something about that €400… I didn’t just save it for you.”
My first feeling was confusion.
Then came a little anxiety.
Not because I thought something terrible had happened.
But because I knew my son.
Marco was never someone who just said things.
If he found something difficult to talk about, it usually meant it was important.
I called him immediately.
He picked up almost instantly.
“Mama?”
“Marco… what did you mean by your message?”
On the other end, it remained quiet for a moment.
“I knew you would ask.”
“Just tell me.”
He sighed softly.
“That €400 was actually meant for two people.”
I frowned.
“Two people?”
“For you…”
He paused for a moment.
“And for me.”
I didn't understand.
“What do you mean?”
Marco was silent for a few seconds.
Then he said:
“A few months ago, I had a difficult period.”
I sat up straighter.
“Why did you never tell me that?”
Because I was his mother.
Because I automatically thought I had to know everything about him.
Because for years I had been used to noticing his grief before he could put words to it.
But perhaps…
I had missed something too.
“Things weren't going well at work,” Marco said.
“I had a lot of stress.”
“There were days when I came home and just sat on the couch without saying a word.”
I swallowed hard.
“Why didn't you call me?”
He laughed softly.
“Because you would have done the exact same thing as me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would have said: ‘Don’t worry, Mama will manage.’”
I smiled sadly.
Because he was right.
I probably would have reassured him.
I would have acted like everything could be fixed.
Even when it couldn't.
Marco continued.
“One evening I was looking through old photos.”
“Photos from the past.”
“And I saw how much you always did for me.”
I looked outside.
The rain tapped softly against the window.
“After that, I looked at my own life.”
“And I realized that I always thought I was helping you by sending money or buying things for you.”
“But actually…”
He paused.
“Actually, I never gave you what you used to give me.”
“What’s that?”
“My time.”
Those two words struck me deeply.
Because time had always been something I had given.
My time.
My nights.
My weekends.
My years.
I had never thought anyone would give it back.
“So I started putting a little money aside every month,” Marco said.
“Not because I thought you needed anything.”
“But because I wanted you to do something for once without feeling guilty.”
I smiled.
“A mother always feels guilty when she does something for herself.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I didn't want to give you a chance to say no.”
I laughed softly.
“So you hid the money in an old coat?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn't very smart.”
He laughed.
“I figured you would never throw the coat away.”
“That’s true.”
“Why?”
I looked at the old coat still hanging on the chair.
“Because you were wearing it when you first said you were proud of yourself.”
On the other end, it went quiet.
That afternoon, Marco came by again.
He brought something with him.
A small bag.
“What’s in there?”
He smiled.
“A few things.”
I looked curiously.
He pulled out a new scarf.
Then a book.
And finally, a photo album.
I looked at him in surprise.
“Marco…”
“Nothing expensive.”
He said quickly.
“I know you don’t like that.”
“But I wanted to make something.”
He opened the photo album.
On the first page was a picture of me.
A very old photo.
I was maybe thirty back then.
I was standing in the garden with Marco as a little boy in my arms.
Underneath the photo it said:
“The woman who was always there for everyone.”
My eyes grew damp.
I flipped the page.
Every single page held memories.
My first house.
Marco’s first day of school.
His first bicycle.
His diploma.
Moments I thought only I still remembered.
“Who made this?”
Marco smiled.
“I did.”
“When?”
“In the evenings.”
“When you were busy?”
He looked at me.
“Exactly because of that.”
I closed the album.
“Marco, why are you doing all of this?”
He looked away for a moment.
Then he said:
“Because I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day and realize I’m too late.”
That sentence made me quiet.
“Too late for what?”
“To thank you.”
I took his hand.
“Marco…”
“No, Mama. Let me say this.”
He looked straight into my eyes.
“You never asked for anything in return.”
“You never said I had to do anything.”
“You never complained.”
“But that doesn't mean you didn't deserve anything.”
I felt my eyes sting.
Because sometimes mothers wait their whole lives for something small.
Not for money.
Not for gifts.
But for someone to finally say:
“I saw everything you did.”
That evening we ate together.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't rushing.
I didn't look at the clock.
I didn't think about what needed to happen tomorrow.
I just sat across from my son.
And I realized something.
The €400 hadn't changed my life.
The gesture behind it had.
Because Marco didn't just give me a day to myself.
He gave me the feeling that I still mattered.
But when I wanted to clean up the old wooden box again that night…
I saw a second envelope lying beneath the letter.
An envelope I had never seen before.
On the front was just one name.
Not mine.
Not Marco’s.
But his father’s.
And the date on it…
was the day before he passed away.
