When I was a kid, my mom had a weird habit of sleeping with the window wide open in the winter. I even teased her about it.

She passed away recently, and as I was cleaning out her room, I cried when I discovered a little wooden box tucked under her bed. Inside were a dozen letters, each one addressed to me, in her handwriting. The top one was labeled, “Open after I’m gone. Especially if you’re cold.”

I sat down right there on the floor, surrounded by the familiar scent of her lavender lotion and that old knitted throw she never let anyone wash. My hands shook as I opened the letter. Her cursive danced across the page, just like it always had on birthday cards.

It read:
“My sweet Callum,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably somewhere better, hopefully with your dad. I kept that window open every winter not because I liked the cold (God, no), but because your dad used to sneak up to it every night after he passed, I swear. I could feel him. A breeze would brush my cheek, and it felt like his kiss. Maybe it’s silly. But when you lose someone you love that deeply, you start holding on to anything that feels close. Don’t close yourself off like I did. Let the cold in once in a while—it might be love knocking.”

I clutched the letter to my chest and cried until my face went numb. I hadn’t thought about Dad in years—not properly. He died in a car accident when I was eight. After that, Mom was never quite the same. She smiled less. Her hugs got tighter.

When I was growing up, I used to climb into her bed on cold nights, annoyed that she wouldn’t just shut the window and stop the draft. I’d pull the covers over my head, while she’d sit up against the headboard, quietly watching the moonlight. She’d never explain it then, just kiss the top of my head and whisper, “One day, you’ll understand.”

I didn’t. Not until now.

I spent the next few days slowly clearing out the house. My wife, Georgia, stayed with the kids while I took care of it on my own. I think I needed the space, and she understood. The house was full of memories, like the dent in the kitchen wall from when I kicked a soccer ball indoors, or the pencil marks still etched into the doorframe from my yearly height checks.

In Mom’s closet, behind her Sunday coats, I found a stack of old photographs tied with ribbon. They were mostly black and white, some yellowed at the edges. My parents in their twenties, at the beach, in the snow, dancing in their tiny living room. My dad had this look—soft but mischievous. Always smiling like he knew something funny no one else did.

One photo caught my eye. It was Mom standing at the open window, wearing her thick red robe and holding a steaming cup. She looked peaceful. On the back, in Dad’s handwriting, it said, “My snow angel, waiting for me.”

That was when it really hit me. That window wasn’t just a window. It was a door, a ritual, a connection. And all those years, I thought she was just eccentric or stubborn. But she was grieving. And maybe, in her own way, still loving.

I called Georgia that night and asked how the kids were. She told me our daughter, Sadie, was upset because her class project got pushed back. Nothing major. But the sound of her little voice in the background made something inside me crack open a bit more.

“Tell her Daddy’s coming home soon,” I said. “And we’re going to build that birdhouse this weekend.”

“Even in the cold?” Georgia teased.

“Especially in the cold.”

After the funeral, which was quiet and small like Mom would’ve wanted, I stayed an extra night at the house. I slept in her room, curled up under that itchy throw blanket. Just before bed, I opened the window. The wind nipped at my cheeks, and I waited.

I didn’t feel anything magical. No ghostly breeze. No whispered messages from the other side.

But it was quiet. And somehow, I felt less alone.

The next morning, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years. I took a walk down to Miller’s Pond, the place Dad used to take us fishing. It was frozen over now, but I could still picture him in his wool cap, helping me untangle my line, chuckling as I nearly fell in.

On the way back, I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen in decades. Mrs. Ridley, the neighbor who used to bring over banana bread on Sundays. She was using a walker now, but her smile hadn’t aged a day.

“Callum? Goodness, you look just like your dad,” she said, gripping my hand. “Your mom was a special woman. Never let anyone tell you different.”

“I know,” I said, voice catching.

“She used to come over and talk about you for hours. Even when you were grown and gone. She was proud of you, always. Especially when you took that job in the city.”

That surprised me. I always thought she resented that I moved out so fast after college. We had a bit of a falling-out then. I wanted a different life, one with noise and ambition. She wanted me close. But I never knew she told people she was proud.

Back at the house, I found another letter. This one hidden in her old jewelry box, taped under the lid. It was shorter.

“In case we never got the chance to say it: I was hard on you because I knew you were strong enough to leave. I just didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t. But you made the right choice. I love you, Callum. Always.”

I sat on the edge of her bed and let out a long, shaky breath.

When I got back home, Georgia hugged me for a full minute before letting go. The kids tackled me in the hallway, and we all ended up on the floor in a pile of giggles and elbows.

That weekend, as promised, we built the birdhouse. It was crooked, painted badly, and Sadie stuck sparkly stickers on the roof. But it was perfect.

That night, I stood in our bedroom, staring at the window. I cracked it open just an inch. Georgia noticed.

“Testing out your mom’s theory?”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t ask questions. Just kissed me on the cheek and crawled into bed.

That open window became a little ritual of mine. Not every night, but on the nights when I missed her most. I’d open it slightly, take a breath, and let the cold air remind me that love doesn’t end. It lingers. It waits by the window. It sneaks in with the wind.

Months later, Sadie asked me, “Dad, why is your window always open? Aren’t you cold?”

I smiled. “Sometimes. But it helps me remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That love stays. Even after people go.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded in that quiet, curious way kids do when they’re storing something big in their little hearts.

One morning, as we were getting ready for a school fundraiser, Georgia handed me a small envelope.

“I was going through the mail from the old house. This one had no stamp, no return address. Just your name.”

Inside was a note. Just one line:

“You’re doing good, son. Love you always. —Dad”

I stared at it for a long time. It was written in handwriting I didn’t recognize, but something about it felt… familiar. I never told anyone about it. Maybe it was one of Mom’s friends trying to comfort me. Or maybe—well, who knows.

A few years passed. Life moved on. The kids grew. Georgia and I bought a small cottage by a lake, one with big windows and creaky floors. We made new traditions. But I always kept one thing the same.

On winter nights, I cracked the window open.

When my daughter left for college, she hugged me at the airport and said, “I’m gonna miss that cold window breeze at night.”

That’s when I realized something. Without ever intending to, I’d passed on a little piece of my mother. Her habit. Her hope. Her way of holding on to love.

There’s a kind of beauty in that. The way grief softens over time and turns into something warm, even in the coldest air.

So, if you ever walk by a house and see a window slightly open on a freezing night, don’t shake your head or wonder if the owners have lost their minds.

Maybe they’re just waiting for someone they love.

Maybe they’re remembering.

Sometimes, the coldest breeze carries the warmest memories. Don’t be afraid to leave the window open.

If this story touched you, share it with someone who needs to feel a little warmth in the cold. And give it a like—it helps more stories like this reach the hearts that need them.