The woman outside the hospital stopped me as I was leaving.
She handed me a sealed envelope.
"Open it on the happiest day of your life."
I asked what was inside.
"You'll understand when it's time."
For years, I kept it.
Through promotions, heartbreaks, failures, and victories.
Whenever something good happened, I convinced myself something even better was coming.
So I waited.
And waited.
Last month, my daughter was born.
Holding her for the first time, I knew no future achievement could top that moment.
That night, I opened the envelope.
Inside was a hospital bracelet.
My name.
My date of birth.
The same hospital.
Folded beneath it was a note:
"You opened this on the happiest day of my life too.
Love, Your mother."
I called her immediately.
My father answered.
Crying.
My mother had died that morning.
At the same hospital.
In the room next to my daughter's.
@RallyOnChain
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