PART 7 – The Person Who Knew the Last Secret
I held my phone to my ear, barely daring to breathe.
On the other end of the line, I heard a voice I hadn't heard in years.
“Helena…”
My heart began to beat faster.
“Who is this?”
A short silence.
Then came the answer.
“It’s Daniel.”
My fingers froze.
Daniel.
My husband’s best friend.
Someone who used to visit our home almost every week more than twenty years ago.
Someone who stood by us during the most difficult period of our lives.
But after the funeral…
he slowly faded out of our lives.
Not because there was a fight.
Not because something had happened.
Sometimes people just disappear because life goes on.
“I never thought I’d call you again,” he said softly.
“Why are you calling now?”
I tried to remain calm.
Deep down, however, I knew this phone call had something to do with the letter.
With my husband.
With the past that had suddenly appeared at my doorstep again.
“I heard Marco found the box.”
I looked at the wooden box on the table.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I was the one who put it there.”
I felt a cold shiver run through my body.
“You?”
“Yes, Helena.”
“Your husband asked me to keep that box safe.”
I slowly sat down.
“Why did he do that?”
Daniel sighed.
“Because he knew he didn't have much time left.”
Those words still hurt.
Even after all these years.
“He didn't want to give you any more sorrow.”
I looked at the letter lying next to me.
“But why didn't he just give me those letters?”
“Because he knew you.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“He knew you would do anything to stay strong.”
“He knew you would say: ‘It’s not necessary. Just save it for Marco.’”
I smiled sadly.
Because once again…
someone had described me precisely.
Daniel told me that in the last months of his life, my husband spoke about me often.
Not about his illness.
Not about his fear.
But about me.
“He always said the same thing,” Daniel shared.
“Helena thinks her value lies in how much she can mean to others.”
I felt my eyes grow damp.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“And he also said…”
Daniel paused for a moment.
“That he was afraid you would forget who you were yourself after he passed away.”
I looked at my hands.
For twenty years, I had tried to move forward.
I had learned to be alone.
I had learned to arrange everything myself.
But perhaps I had never learned to consider myself important.
“There’s more,” Daniel said.
I took a deep breath.
“What?”
“Your husband had arranged something.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“What do you mean?”
“He had opened a small savings account.”
“A savings account?”
“Yes.”
“But why don't I know anything about that?”
“Because it wasn't meant for you.”
I didn't understand.
“Not for me?”
“No.”
“Then for whom?”
Daniel replied:
“For Marco.”
I stayed silent.
That evening, I called Marco.
He came over immediately.
When he walked in, he saw my face.
“Mama, what happened?”
I told him everything.
About Daniel.
About the account.
About his father.
Marco listened without interrupting me.
When I finished, he said softly:
“Dad actually did the same thing as me.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted to make sure you had something.”
“But he didn't want you to know.”
I smiled.
“You two are more alike than you think.”
Marco laughed softly.
“I never expected that.”
A few days later, we went to the bank together.
Not because the money was important.
But because it was one last piece of his father.
When the employee checked the details, he looked at us kindly.
“There is indeed an amount in this account.”
Marco looked at me.
I felt tears welling up.
“How much?”
The employee smiled.
“The amount isn't large.”
“But there is a message attached to it.”
“A message?”
He turned the screen toward us.
There was a short sentence on it.
A sentence written by my husband.
“For the day my son understands that his mother is also someone who deserves love.”
I had to put my hand over my mouth.
Marco looked away.
He tried to hide his tears.
But this time I didn't let him pretend everything was fine.
I took his hand.
“You are allowed to be sad.”
He looked at me.
“You always say that to me.”
I smiled.
“Then maybe it’s time you learned it too.”
That evening we sat together at my kitchen table again.
The same table.
The same chairs.
But everything felt different.
Because for the first time in years, my house didn't feel empty.
Marco looked at the old coat still hanging on the chair.
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you actually keep that coat all these years?”
I looked at the coat.
I thought of the €400.
Of the letter.
Of everything that had remained hidden.
And I smiled.
“Because apparently, I had to wait until that coat told me something.”
Marco laughed.
But then he grew serious.
“Mama…”
“Yes?”
“I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you will never say you don’t need anything ever again.”
I looked at him.
“But I have you, don’t I?”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“But you shouldn't be the only reason why you are happy.”
Those words stayed with me.
Because my son finally understood what his father had tried to say all those years ago.
A month later, I stood in front of my wardrobe again.
I picked up Marco’s old coat.
But this time I didn't tuck it away.
I hung it in a spot where I could see it every day.
Not as a reminder of the money.
Not as a reminder of grief.
But as a reminder of one important lesson:
A mother gives love her whole life.
But one day, she must also learn to receive that love back.
And yet…
there was still one thing I didn't know.
Because when Marco wanted to give me €400 that day…
he had a reason of his own.
A reason he had kept hidden for months.
And when he told me that truth…
I started crying all over again.
Not from sadness.
But because I finally understood how much a child can love his mother.
