Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey’s bar, two cups of coffee, and the same park bench. She passed away in October. And when I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey’s bar. He looked at me and said, “Your mom kept a secret from you.”
The machines beside Mom’s bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.
I sat in the hard plastic chair, rubbing lotion into my mother’s hands the way the nurse had shown me. Her skin felt thinner than it should have—fragile, almost translucent.
Then Mom cleared her throat.
“I think I made a mistake.”
I looked up.
Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair noticeably thinner than it had been just two weeks earlier.
“What kind of mistake?”
Her lips pressed together as she stared up at the ceiling, as though the answer might be written there among the water stains and fluorescent lights.
My chest tightened. “Mom?”
She turned her head toward me.
Her eyes were tired, but calm—too calm—like she had already made peace with something I didn’t yet understand.
“I need you to promise me something.”
My stomach flipped. We were entering dangerous territory now. I could feel it.
Promises made in a hospital room to a dying mother aren’t the kind you get to break later.
“Promise what?”
“That when the time comes, you’ll listen to your heart. Not your anger. Not anyone else’s guilt. Not even what you think I would’ve wanted. Do what you believe is right.”
“You’re scaring me, Mom.”
She gave a faint smile. “I’m not trying to.”
What did she mean by when the time comes? What time? What decision was she preparing me for?
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, I thought she’d fallen asleep. Her breathing had taken on that slow, shallow rhythm it always did when the pain medication kicked in.
Then she opened her eyes again—and abruptly changed the subject.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do our Christmas ritual this year.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
For my entire life, my mother and I had shared one perfect pre-Christmas tradition every December 20th.
We’d buy the largest milk chocolate Hershey’s bar we could find, grab two coffees, and walk to the exact same bench beneath an old oak tree in the park.
We’d split the chocolate, sip our coffee, and take our traditional selfie.
Every single year. Same place. Same candy. Same ridiculous grins as we pretended we weren’t freezing.
I had photos going back to when I was six years old.
Me with missing teeth and a terrible haircut.
Me as a sulky teenager who thought the tradition was dumb—but showed up anyway.
Me as an adult who finally understood what my mother had always known: that consistency matters. That showing up matters.
“What?” I forced a laugh. “Of course you are. You always do.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You’ll go without me. Traditions matter. They carry us when we don’t know what comes next.”
I swallowed hard. “We’ll go together next year.”
She didn’t respond. She just looked at me with those too-calm eyes—the look of someone who knows something you’re not ready to accept yet.
Then she said softly, “Promise me you’ll go. Even if it hurts.”
I nodded. “I promise.”
She exhaled, like she’d been holding something in for a very long time.
I wanted to ask her what she meant—but I didn’t. Because asking meant admitting she was dying. And I wasn’t ready for that.
Two weeks later, she was gone. Cancer—swift and brutal.
I buried her in October.
By December, the world felt like it was coming apart without her.
Everything reminded me of Mom.
People kept telling me it would get easier, that grief softens with time. But how much time does it take?
I avoided the grocery store near the park where we always bought the chocolate. But as the date of our ritual crept closer, I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever. I’d made a promise.
On the 20th, there was no escaping it.
The promise sat in my chest like a stone. Mom had asked so little of me in her final days—how could I refuse her this?
I can’t do this without her, the thought circled my mind as I walked into the grocery store. What was the point? Who was I keeping the tradition for?
Then muscle memory took over.
I grabbed the chocolate automatically. Then two coffees.
My body knew what December 20th meant, even if my heart hadn’t caught up yet.
The walk to the park felt longer than usual. Colder. I kept expecting to hear her voice beside me, commenting on the weather or pointing out Christmas lights she liked.
When I reached the bench, I stopped cold.
Someone was already sitting there.
A man, shivering in the cold. He wore a thin jacket that had clearly seen better days—maybe better years.
His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles sagging beneath them.
But what caught my attention was the giant Hershey’s bar resting in his lap.
When he saw me, his face crumpled with relief.
“Thank God,” he whispered. “I’ve been waiting here since sunrise. I was afraid I’d missed you.”
I stopped a few feet away, clutching the coffees.
My mind struggled to process what I was seeing. That was our bench. Mine and Mom’s. And that Hershey’s bar—it was our tradition.
Yet this stranger sat there like he belonged.
“I’m sorry… have we met?”
“No,” he said. “But I knew your mother.”
The fact that he’d been waiting for me made the words feel heavier.
“How did you know my mom?”
He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking—not just from the cold.
“Your mom kept a secret from you. She made me promise to reveal it when the moment was right. And now it’s time.”
Mom’s words echoed in my head—how she’d asked me to promise I’d follow my heart when the time came.
Was this the moment she’d meant?
The coffee cups burned in my hands, but I couldn’t move.
“What secret?”
“Your mother and I had a child together,” he said quietly. “You.”
I stared at him. “No…”
“I’m your father.”
“My dad died. That’s what my mom told me.”
He nodded. “She lied to protect you. I left when you were only a few months old—and I regretted it every day.”
“Then why did you leave?”
He looked down at the chocolate. “I fell in love with someone else while your mom was pregnant. A colleague… she led me astray.”
“Led you astray?”
“Exactly. I never cheated. I walked away instead.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Congratulations.”
“My life never really worked after that,” he said. “Nothing lasted. Jobs. Relationships. I was cursed. I tried to come back a few times.”
“When?”
“Every couple of years. When things started going badly again, I tried to make penance with your mom.”
Not because he missed me—but because his life wasn’t working.
“And I’m guessing she shut the door in your face.”
“Every time—except the last. Earlier this year. She told me about your tradition.”
“What changed?”
“I’m sick,” he said. “My liver is failing. I need a donor.”
Everything clicked.
“So you’re here,” I said, “to ask me to save you.”
“I’m here to ask you to consider it.”
And there it was—the choice Mom had prepared me for.
I saw my own features in his face now. My nose. My chin.
But how could I do this?
It was one thing to forgive him. Another to give him part of my body.
I stepped away from the bench. From the Hershey’s bar that now felt like a trap.
How could Mom have shared this sacred ritual with him?
But was I the kind of person who could let someone die because I was angry?
“I need time to think.”
“I’ll be here every day,” he said. “Please don’t turn your back on me.”
I walked away.
I didn’t know what I would decide—but Mom believed I was strong enough to choose.
And I would try to do what was right.
