The phone rang at 7:14 in the morning. I was still in my slippers, coffee halfway to my mouth.
"Are you sitting down?" my sister said. I didn't sit. I leaned against the counter.
Mom was gone. Peacefully, she said. In her sleep.
I hung up and stood there. The coffee went cold.
I found the transit card in my wallet. One ride left. I was supposed to take the bus to her place next Tuesday.
The front door opened. It was my aunt, unannounced. She didn't say a word. Just put her hand on my shoulder.
I put the transit card in the drawer with the spare keys. Not throwing it away. Just not using it.
That's the letting go — not the grand gestures. The small things you stop holding onto.