3 for 100 Yen

[Essay / 940 characters]

"Good morning, Mom. The weather is wonderful today."

Every morning, as I open the curtains, I speak to the portrait of my mother who watches over me from the family altar. She passed away about three years ago.

My mother was a single parent who raised four children all by herself.

My mother was a nurse. She made a living working day and night shifts.
"I can't give you an allowance," she would apologize.
After finishing a night shift, she would press a 1,000-yen bill into my small palm and say, "Go buy something you like."
At the same time, she would say, "Let me sleep," and crawl into her futon.

We always went to amusement parks or zoos after her night shifts. On the way back from the supermarket, we would have imagawayaki and soft-serve ice cream. It was her own way of loving us, and it was also a way for her to take a break.

As I grew up, I became more rebellious.
"You have no idea how hard it is to support a life when I can't even afford to buy a single pair of underwear," she would lecture me.
I learned that she had been putting off buying things she wanted for herself to make ends meet. She had never shown that side to her children.

Once we both started living alone, I would visit home during the Obon and New Year holidays. My mother would always carry a gauze handkerchief and happily tell me, "It's from the 100-yen shop, 3 for 100 yen." She seemed to really love the texture.
Later, I gave her a pair of 100% cotton underwear.

"The seams are itchy," she said, looking embarrassed. It seemed that the new pair didn't suit her, as she was used to wearing thin, worn-out underwear. I smiled, finding my honest mother adorable.

Not long after, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
After a major bile duct surgery, the cancer metastasized to her peritoneum, leaving no hope, and she was moved to a palliative care ward.

I would wet her favorite gauze handkerchief and carefully wipe around the mouth of my mother, who was suffering from severe vomiting.
"This is your favorite, isn't it, Mom?"
She grew thin and lost the ability to speak. She would desperately try to move her dry mouth to tell me something.

When I leaned my ear toward her lips, she mustered her shaky voice and said,
"Three... for... a... hundred... yen," and gave a weak, gentle smile.

Even while writhing in pain throughout her body, my mother showed me the same smile she always had until the very end. She was so precious that I couldn't help but laugh with joy. She was already a Buddha herself. My mother, who still keeps the flame of love flickering within me, is a cherished memory I never want to extinguish.

Mom, thank you for everything.
Every day with you was the happiest time of my life.