My Late Mom and I Shared a Christmas Hershey's Tradition – She Died This Year, but It Led Me to a Truth I Never Expected

Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey's bar, two coffees, the same park bench. She died in October. When I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey's bar. He said, "Your mom kept a secret from you."

The machines beside Mom's bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.

I was sitting in the hard plastic chair, rubbing lotion into my mother's hands the way the nurse showed me. Her skin felt thinner than it should. Fragile.

Then Mom cleared her throat.

"I think I made a mistake."

I looked up.

I looked up.

Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair thinner than it had been two weeks ago.

"What kind of mistake?"

Her lips pressed together. She stared at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there in the water stains and fluorescent lights.

My chest tightened. "Mom?"

She turned her head toward me.

She turned her head

toward me.

Her eyes were tired, but calm… like she'd already made peace with something I didn't know about.

"I need you to promise me something."

My stomach did a somersault. We were entering dangerous territory now. I could feel it.

Promises you make in a hospital room to your dying mother aren't the kind you break later.

"Promise what?"

We were entering

dangerous territory now.

"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 think 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 choice was she preparing me for?

"Do what you

think is right."

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, I thought she'd fallen asleep. Her breathing had that slow, shallow quality it got when the pain medication kicked in.

Then she opened them again and changed the subject completely.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to do our Christmas ritual this year."

The words hit harder than I expected.

The words hit harder

than I expected.

For my entire life, my mother and I shared one perfect pre-Christmas tradition every December 20th.

We would buy the largest milk chocolate Hershey's bar available, get two coffees, and walk to the exact same bench beneath an old oak tree in the park.

We would divide the chocolate, sip coffee, and take our traditional selfie.

Every single year. Same location. Same candy. Same ridiculous grins as we pretended we weren't freezing our faces off.

My mother and I shared

one perfect pre-Christmas tradition.

I had photos going back to when I was six years old.

Me with gap teeth and a terrible haircut.

Me as a sullen teenager who thought the tradition was stupid but showed up anyway.

Me as an adult who'd finally understood what my mother had known all along. That consistency matters. That showing up matters.

"What?" I forced a laugh. "Of course you are. You always do."

I had photos going back

to when I was six years old.

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 answer that. Just looked at me with those too-calm eyes — a look that said she knew something I wasn't ready to accept yet.

Instead, she said softly, "Promise me you'll go. Even if it hurts."

"We'll go together next year."

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.

Two weeks later,

she was gone.

By December, the world felt like it was falling apart without her.

Everything reminded me of her.

People kept telling me it would get easier and that grief softened with time, but how much time would it take?

I'd been avoiding the grocery store near the park where we always bought the chocolate, but the date of our ritual was drawing closer each day, and I'd made a promise.

The date of our ritual

was drawing closer each day,

and I'd made a promise.

On the 20th, I couldn't avoid it anymore.

The promise sat in my chest like a stone. Mom had asked so little of me in those final days. How could I refuse her this?

But I can't do this without her. The thought circled my brain like a vulture as I entered the grocery store. What was the point? Who was I keeping the tradition for?

Then muscle memory took over.

Muscle memory

took over.

I automatically grabbed the chocolate, and then two coffees.

My body knew what December 20th meant, even if my heart was still catching up.

The walk to the park felt longer than usual. Colder. I kept expecting to hear her voice beside me, making some observation about the weather or pointing out Christmas lights she liked.

When I reached the bench, I froze.

When I reached the bench,

I froze.

Someone was sitting there.

A man, shivering in the cold. He wore a thin jacket that looked like it had seen better days. Maybe better years.

His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath.

But what caught my attention was the giant Hershey's bar in his lap.

When he saw me, his expression crumpled with sheer relief.

What caught my attention

was the giant Hershey's bar

in his lap.

"Thank God," he whispered.

"I've been waiting here since sunrise. I feared I had missed you."

I stopped a few feet away, clutching my coffees.

My brain struggled to process this. That was our bench, mine and Mom's, and the Hershey's bar was our tradition.

But this stranger was sitting there like he belonged.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

This stranger was

sitting there like

he belonged.

"No," he replied. "But I knew your mother."

The fact that he was there, waiting for me, added a weight to the words that made me uneasy.

"How did you know my mom?"

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking, and not just from the cold.

"Your mom kept a secret from you. She made me promise to reveal it when the moment was right. And now it's time."

"Your mom kept

a secret from you."

Mom's words came back to me then, how she'd asked me to promise that I'd listen to my heart when the time came, that I'd do what I thought was right…

Was this the moment she'd been preparing me for?

The coffee cups were getting hot in my hands. I wanted to set them down, but I couldn't move.

What secret had Mom kept from me?

What secret

had Mom kept

from me?

"Your mother and I had a child together," he said. "You."

I stared at him. "No..."

"I'm your father."

"My dad died. That's what my mom told me."

He nodded solemnly. "She lied to protect you from the truth. I left when you were a baby, just a few months old, and regretted it every day since."

"Then why did you leave?"

"She lied to protect

you from the truth."

He looked down at the chocolate in his lap. "I fell in love with someone else while your mom was pregnant. A colleague… she led me astray."

"Led you astray?" The way he was talking gave me a bad feeling.

"Exactly. By the time you were born, I'd lost my way. I couldn't handle the pressure of being a father while trying to resist that woman. I never cheated on your mother. I walked away instead."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"My life never really worked after that," he said. "Nothing lasted. Jobs. Relationships. I was cursed. I tried to come back a few times to make things right."

That got my attention. "You what? When?"

"Every couple of years, when I felt things were starting to go badly again, I tried to make penance with your mom."

Every time things started going badly.

"My life never really

worked after that."

Not because he missed me or regretted leaving, but because his life wasn't working out and he thought we could fix his bad karma.

"And I'm guessing mom shut the door in your face every time."

"Except the last time. I saw her earlier this year. When I told her what was going on, she agreed to let me meet you. She told me about this little tradition of yours."

What could he have told her that made Mom change her mind?

What could he

have told her that made

Mom change her mind?

"You see, I'm sick. My liver is failing. I need a donor."

Everything made sense: why he was there, and why Mom had made me promise to follow my heart when the time came.

"So you're here," I said, "to ask me to save you."

"I'm here to ask you to consider it. I suffered all my life for walking out on you and your mom. I tried to make up for it, but your mom wouldn't let me. I'm hoping you'll give me that chance."

And there it was, the choice Mom had left for me: to do what I thought was right.

Everything made sense.

He looked small suddenly, but hopeful.

I could see my own features in his face now. The shape of my nose. My chin. This was my father, a man I'd thought was dead, and he was asking me to save him.

But how could I?

It would've been hard enough if he were just asking for forgiveness, but he wanted a piece of my liver!

He was asking me

to save him.

I stepped away from the bench, away from the giant Hershey's bar that suddenly felt like a trap.

How on earth could Mom have shared this with him? He'd taken our sacred ritual and twisted it into a way to hustle me!

But was I really the type of person who could let him die because I was angry? Because I had decided he didn't deserve my help?

Was I really the type

of person who could let him die

because I was angry?

"I need time to think about this."

I turned and walked away.

"I'll be waiting here every day for your answer. Please, don't turn your back on me. I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

I didn't turn back. I didn't know if I had the heart to help him, or what type of person that made me, but Mom had believed I was strong enough to decide.

It wouldn't be easy, but I would try to do the right thing.

I would try to

do the right thing.

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