“She Wore That Old Coat Every Day — Then I Found Something in Her Pockets”

My name is Jimmy, and I am thirty-six years old. For most of my life, I carried a quiet embarrassment—one rooted not in something I had done, but in something my mother wore. It was a coat. Charcoal gray, wool, heavy, and outdated, with fabric thinning at the elbows and cuffs, so worn that tiny, stubborn pills clung to it as if refusing to let go. Two mismatched buttons lined the front—one a dark, dull black, the other a washed-out gray, sewn on at… CONTINUE READING…