When I was a teenager, my sister gave me a plain cardboard box with a note that read, “Do not open until you become a mom.” I kept it for years, never imagining what it truly meant. But when I finally opened it after my daughter was born, everything I knew about my life began to unravel.
All my life, I had known I was meant to be a mother. That instinct had always lived in me, quiet but persistent. And now, in my 30s, I was about to become a mom for real.
I was nine months pregnant, swollen and tired, but happy in a way I had never been before.
Ethan and I were counting the days. He was everything I could have asked for in a husband—gentle, attentive, funny. We had waited for this baby together with such hope and love.
It made me think of my childhood and how I had been raised in a house full of laughter, warmth, and patience.
My parents had been my role models. Their love for each other was something I had always wanted to recreate, and I had.
I also thought about Grace, my older sister. Fifteen years older, she had practically been my second mom when I was little. We had been so close. She had read me bedtime stories, braided my hair, and taken me to the park.
Despite the age difference, we had shared everything—music, movies, and even secrets.
But now, we rarely see each other. She lived in another state, and though we talked occasionally, it was not the same. I missed her more than I let myself admit.
Then I remembered something. A box. Years ago, when I was still a teenager, Grace had given me a small cardboard box wrapped in simple brown paper.
On the lid, written in black marker in her handwriting, it said: “Do not open until you become a mom.”
I had forgotten all about it. Suddenly, I needed to find it. I needed to hold that box.
That afternoon, I drove to my parents’ house. They were surprised to see me but thrilled.
“You should be resting, Lily!” Mom said, hugging me tightly.
“I know,” I laughed. “But I need to look for something.”
“What is it?” Dad asked.
“A box Grace gave me a long time ago. It said I should open it only when I become a mom,” I said.
They exchanged puzzled looks.
“I don’t remember anything like that,” Mom said slowly.
“Grace always gave unusual gifts,” Dad added with a chuckle.I went to the basement, breathing in the familiar dusty scent of old furniture and forgotten holiday decorations.
I moved boxes, photo albums, and books. And there it was—a small box, with fading handwriting: “Do not open until you become a mom.” I carried it up the stairs carefully.
