09/07/2026
Dear Mom,
Today I sold out of eggrolls, and as soon as I realized they were all gone, you were the first person I wanted to call.
I wanted to hear your voice and tell you, “Mom, I did it. I sold out again.” I wanted to hear you say you were proud of me.
But I can't call you anymore, and that still hurts so much.
I keep your voicemail saved on my phone. Sometimes I listen just to hear your voice again. For a few seconds, it feels like you're still here. Then it ends, and I'm reminded that I'll never hear you answer the phone or tell you about the little victories in my life.
I miss you, Mom—especially in the small moments when my first instinct is still to call you.
I'm still working, still grinding, and still chasing the things I told you I would do. Some days I'm exhausted and unsure how to keep going. Some days I wish you were here to give me the encouragement only you could.
But I remember what you wanted for me, so I keep going.
I wish you could see what I'm building, how hard I'm trying, and every milestone along the way. Whenever something good happens, part of me still looks for you.
I hope somehow you know how much I love you and that I'm trying to make you proud. When I listen to your voicemail, I'll keep remembering your words and the person you wanted me to become.
I promise I'm not giving up. I'm going to keep going—for me, for the dream, and for you.
I would give anything for one more conversation, one more hug, one more “I love you,” one more chance to call and say:
“Mom… I sold out again.”
I love you, Mom.
And I always will.