He helped her into the car, but this time, he wasn’t taking her to a lonely cottage. He was taking her home. When they arrived, Susan met them at the door, her eyes wide with surprise.
— “Michael? Who is this?”
Michael looked at his wife, a radiant smile breaking across his face.
— “Susan, I’d like you to meet someone. This is Eleanor. She’s my mother.”
Susan stood frozen for a moment, then she saw the tears in Michael’s eyes and the fragile hope on Eleanor’s face. She stepped forward and took Eleanor’s hand.
— “It is an honor to finally meet you,” Susan said, her voice warm and sincere.
The following years were the best of Michael’s life. Eleanor moved into their guest suite. The “memory issues” turned out to be early-stage dementia, but with proper care and the love of a family, she had many good days. She told Michael stories of his first steps, his first words, and the secret lullabies she used to sing through the nursery door.
When Eleanor finally passed away a few years later, she did so in a warm bed, surrounded by people who knew exactly who she was. Michael buried her in the family plot, under a headstone that simply read: “Eleanor. Unforgettable Mother.”
Every time Michael hears that Nat King Cole song on the radio, he doesn’t feel sadness. He feels a sense of peace. He learned that love doesn’t always look like a Hallmark card; sometimes it looks like a woman selling flowers on a street corner for forty years, just to catch a glimpse of the son she gave everything for. And that, Michael knew, was the greatest gift of all.
