A Small Inheritance

On the things we inherit without meaning to.

My mom has always loved a heart shape.

Not always in a quiet way—she’d point them out when she saw them, say something about it, keep the ones she liked.

Over time, they started to gather. On shelves, in drawers, in the corners of things.

Little traces that, over time, start to feel like part of the air.

I don’t remember when I started noticing them too.

Not the obvious ones, but the accidental kind—the way a strawberry splits just right, or the space between two leaves that meets in a soft point. The corner of a folded napkin. A shape in something otherwise ordinary that catches for just a second longer than it should.

It’s not something I ever decided to look for. It just… happened. Quietly, the way these things do.

For a long time, it still felt like hers. Like I was just recognizing something familiar, not claiming it. But somewhere along the way, without any real marker or moment to point to, it became the way I move through the world.

I don’t just like hearts.

I look for them.

And that feels like the thing that was actually passed down. Not the shape itself, but the instinct behind it—the habit of noticing something soft tucked into the edges of things. Of finding something gentle where you weren’t necessarily expecting it.

Maybe that’s why I notice the things I do.

It’s small. Easy to miss, if you weren’t paying attention.