My Late Mom and I Shared a Christmas Hershey’s Tradition—She Passed Away This Year, but It Led Me to a Truth I Never Expected

January 4, 2026 by ucef

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.