Easter 2014, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She lived in a small, quaint, historical town one state away. My two sisters needed me to help our 80-year-old dad care for our mother, so I heeded the call.

At 50, I left the big city of Houston, ended a career, gave possessions away, said goodbye to my adult children and relocated.

I worked part-time mornings at my sister’s coffee/chocolate shop and spent the afternoons with my sick mom. I didn’t want to make dad feel like I was completely taking over, so I decided to spend evenings and weekends with my sister and her young son. We had 20 years of catching up to do after all. 

Before my mother passed almost a year later, she asked me to share cinnamon crackers and milk with her. That was a special treat only mom and I shared. She spoke softly and kindly to me. She told me how much she enjoyed me coming to stay with her. She told me many stories of her childhood. We laughed and laughed. She told me to love again. She said don’t ever give up on love.

“Anyone can find it if they look hard enough,” she said. “But sometimes, it finds you first.”

She kissed me and fell asleep and those were her last words. I’ve decided to stay in this quaint, small, historical town and see where this reset takes me. Mom would like it that way.