My mother is the strongest woman I know.
She never believes in “signs” or “spirits.” She’s practical, logical, always grounded.
So when she asked me if Heaven had visiting hours, my heart sank.
She said she’d been waking up at night feeling the mattress dip beside her.
“At first, I thought I was dreaming,” she said. “But last night… I felt warm fingers around mine.”
She began crying — and my mother never cries.
“I think your father is trying to tell me something,” she whispered.
I held her hand, unsure what to say.
She told me she had dreamed of the day they first met.
The smell of his cologne.
The way he laughed.
The way he said her name.
“It felt real… too real,” she said. “And I don’t know whether to be afraid… or grateful.”
Then she looked at me with trembling lips and said:
“Maybe he’s waiting for me.”
I hugged her tight, praying silently that love doesn’t hurt this much.
Whether it was a dream, a memory, or something more — it reminded me that even after death, love leaves footprints we can still feel.
