My mom wore the same ragged coat for 30 winters, and I spent most of my life being embarrassed by it. After her funeral, I finally reached into the pockets, and what I found inside made me realize I’d been ashamed of the wrong thing all along.
My name is Jimmy. I’m 36 years old, and I spent most of my childhood wishing my mother owned a different coat.
Charcoal gray wool, thinning at the elbows, pilled at the cuffs, with two mismatched buttons she’d sewn on over the years.
I hated everything about it.
I spent most of my childhood wishing my mother owned a different coat.
When I was 14, I asked her to drop me off a block away from school so my friends wouldn’t see the patches.
She just smiled that tired smile. “It keeps the cold out, baby. That’s all that matters.”
I told myself I’d buy her something better one day. And I did.
When I landed my first job as an architect, I bought her a beautiful cashmere trench coat.
It was elegant and expensive… the kind of coat that told the world you’d made it.
“It keeps the cold out, baby.”
Mom thanked me warmly and hung it carefully in the closet.
The next morning, she wore the old coat to work.
Mom worked at a flower shop in the mall. She’d always loved flowers. Said they were the only things that were beautiful without trying.
We fought about that coat all the time.
