My mom had an obsession with the number three. We put up three alarms in the morning, said three thank-yous before hanging up the phone, gave three hugs before trips. I decided to give my mom two kisses before school, but she grabbed my arm and whispered, “One more, baby. Just one more, or I’ll worry all day.”

I was only seven when I first noticed how seriously she took it. At first, I thought it was just one of her quirks—like how she never wore socks that didn’t match her shirt or how she always stirred her coffee counterclockwise. But the number three? That wasn’t just a habit. It was sacred.

As I got older, I teased her about it. Once, I tried to hang up after only two thank-yous. The silence on the other end hit me like a bucket of cold water. I could feel her panic through the phone. I quickly added the third one, and she exhaled, muttering, “Okay, baby. All good now.”

At thirteen, I started getting annoyed. I didn’t want three hugs in front of my friends or to say “thank you” three times like some robot. I wanted to be normal. But no matter how hard I pushed back, she insisted. “It keeps us safe,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand. Just… trust me.”

I stopped asking why.

Then one night, curiosity got the better of me.

We were watching TV, just the two of us. I was about to go to bed when I turned and asked, “Mom, where’d the number three thing come from? Seriously.”

She paused the show and stared at the screen, not at me. Her voice dropped.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “my brother Danny used to walk me to school. Every day, we had this thing where we’d give each other three pats on the shoulder before he left me at the gate. One morning, we were late, and he only gave me two. I laughed it off. That afternoon, he got hit by a car riding his bike home.”

I didn’t know what to say.

She cleared her throat. “Since then, I’ve never skipped the third. It’s stupid, I know. But if it gives me peace, I’ll do it.”

It didn’t sound stupid anymore.

By the time I turned eighteen, I had internalized the habit. It wasn’t just about my mom. It became part of me. Three knocks before entering a room. Three sips of coffee before talking in the morning. Three deep breaths before making a tough decision. Sometimes I’d forget, and my chest would tighten until I went back and completed the third.

When I left for college, my mom cried during our goodbye. She hugged me three times, kissed my forehead three times, and said, “Call me every day. At 3:00 if you can.”

I tried my best to keep that promise.

College was rough. Not the classes—I could handle the classes. It was the people. The loneliness. The freedom I thought I wanted. The silence in my dorm room that didn’t feel anything like home. I started calling Mom more than once a day. I didn’t admit it, but it kept me grounded.

One day, I forgot to call.

It was midterms. I had three papers due, hadn’t slept in almost two days, and drank way too much coffee. At 3:00, I was in a study group. At 3:05, I remembered. At 3:07, I told myself I’d call after.

I never did.

That night, around 11:00, I checked my phone and saw I had seven missed calls from her. I panicked. I called back immediately, but it went to voicemail. My chest clenched.

The next morning, I got a text: “I’m okay now. I just got worried. Call me when you wake up. I love you. x3”

I called. She answered in tears. “Don’t do that to me again,” she said. “I thought something happened.”

I promised I wouldn’t.

Years passed. I graduated. Got a job. Moved back home for a bit, then out again when I saved up. My mom aged in small, quiet ways. More silver in her hair. A deeper line between her brows. But her habits never changed. Still three alarms. Still three thank-yous.

One day, I called her at 3:00 like usual. No answer.

I waited. Called again at 3:10. Nothing. I texted. Waited again. The longer the silence stretched, the louder the alarms in my head grew.

By 4:00, I was driving over.

Her car was in the driveway. I banged on the door. No answer. I used the spare key. She was on the kitchen floor, breathing but pale, clutching her side.

“Mom!”

The paramedics said it was a minor heart attack. She’d be okay, but it was a warning. A wake-up call. She needed to slow down.

She smiled from the hospital bed, “I guess I used up one of my threes.”

I laughed through my tears.

After that, I visited every Sunday. No excuses. We had a routine. Coffee, stories, sometimes just sitting on the porch, watching the neighborhood kids ride their bikes. She never asked for anything big. Just my presence. And my three hugs.

Then came the day that changed everything.

It was a Thursday. I had taken a half-day from work to surprise her with lunch. Her favorite—grilled cheese with tomato soup from the diner down the block.

I knocked three times.

No answer.

I used the key again. This time, the house was too quiet. I called her name, once, then again. My voice cracked on the third. I found her in the bedroom, lying on the bed, eyes closed.

She looked peaceful. Almost like she was asleep. But I knew.

She was gone.

There was no note. No warning. The doctors said it was another heart attack. This one too sudden.

The grief swallowed me.

For weeks, I couldn’t breathe without hearing her voice. I couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the way she’d tug my arm when I forgot the third kiss. I saw the number three everywhere. It mocked me. It comforted me. It haunted me.

After the funeral, I started going through her things. In one of her old boxes, I found journals—dozens of them, each filled with neat, looping handwriting. Every entry dated. Every page ending with a triple underline or three dots. A rhythm. Her way of holding the world together.

Then I found a letter. Addressed to me.

If you’re reading this, then I’m not around anymore. First off, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. Second—yes, I know you forgot to call that one day during midterms. I was never mad. I just needed to hear your voice. Even silence was too loud when it came to you.

I know the “three” thing seems silly. But it gave me control when life felt chaotic. It helped me survive losing Danny. Then losing your dad. And for a while, it helped me survive the fear of losing you.

Now, I want you to live free. Don’t be chained by the same patterns. Keep what brings you peace—but let go of what brings you fear. That’s my last three for you.

Love you always,
x3
Mom

I sat there, holding the letter to my chest, sobbing like a child.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to let go of the rules. I slipped up sometimes. Still knocked three times. Still whispered three “I love yous” into the wind. But slowly, I stopped doing it from fear. I started doing it out of memory. Out of love.

One day, I was walking through the grocery store when I saw an old woman drop her wallet. I picked it up, ran after her, and returned it. She looked stunned.

“People don’t do that much anymore,” she said.

I smiled. “My mom raised me right.”

Later that night, I journaled about it. I ended the entry with three dots. I didn’t even mean to. It just… felt right.

A few years passed.

I got married. We had a daughter. We named her Daniella—after Danny, the uncle I never met.

My wife noticed the way I gave three kisses at bedtime, how I brushed Daniella’s hair in three slow strokes before school. She smiled. “That from your mom?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s our thing.”

One evening, Daniella looked up at me, her eyes curious. “Why three, Daddy?”

I thought for a second.

“Because three means we mean it. The first is for now. The second is for later. The third is just in case.”

She grinned and gave me three little pecks on the cheek.

When she turned seven, she started giving me four.

“Why four?” I asked.

“Because three is for you,” she said. “And the fourth is from Mommy.”

I teared up. Not because of the number. But because of what it meant.

We carry people in little ways. In habits. In words. In pauses between sentences. In things that don’t make sense to anyone else.

I don’t obsess over the number three anymore. But I respect it. Because for my mom, it was more than a number. It was a lifeline. A ritual. A promise.

And in some ways, it saved me too.

Here’s what I learned: We all hold on to something. A belief. A ritual. A pattern. Sometimes it’s born from pain. Sometimes from love. But what matters isn’t the habit itself—it’s why we keep it.

If it brings you peace, keep it.

If it holds you back, let it go.

And if someone gives you a kiss, a hug, or a thank-you—take the time to return it.

Maybe even do it three times.

If this story touched your heart, share it with someone you love. And don’t forget to like it if you believe in the little things that keep us close.