Hey friends, I guess today is a day for truth-telling. I’m sitting here, fingers hovering over my keyboard, unsure how to start. This isn’t easy, but I need to get this out, and I hope it resonates with someone out there.
A few days ago, while sorting through my mom’s old things, I stumbled upon a box I’d never seen before. It was tucked away in the attic, covered in layers of dust like it hadn’t seen daylight in years. At first, I thought it was just more of the same – old photographs, knick-knacks, maybe an embarrassing relic from my childhood. But it was something entirely different.
Inside was a stack of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. I sat on the cold wooden floor, a beam of light from the solitary attic window illuminating this peculiar discovery. As I untied the ribbon, a faint scent of lavender—a scent my mother always wore—wafted up, wrapping me in an unexpected hug.
These letters were from someone named Michael. I didn’t recognize the name at first, but as I read on, the contours of a long-forgotten story emerged. It seems my mother had a close friend or perhaps more before she met my father. The letters were intimate, filled with dreams and whispers of love. They spanned a decade, chronicling a relationship that was tender, supportive, and full of longing.
Reading them felt voyeuristic at first, like I was peeking into a window of her past that I had no right to open. But the more I read, the more I realized how much of herself my mother had to hide in the life she lived with us. Her happiness, her hopes, they were all tucked away in these letters, kept separate from the life she chose to build for me and my siblings.
I was shaken. How could someone I knew so well be a complete stranger? As I delved deeper, I noticed the letters from Michael became less frequent and more melancholic, until they stopped altogether. The last one was dated just two months before she married my father. It spoke of acceptance, of love that lets go.
I confronted my dad with this newfound revelation. Over a cup of chamomile tea, he sighed, his eyes distant. “I knew about Michael,” he confessed, his voice carrying the weight of years unsaid. “Your mother chose to let him go for us, for you. It was a different time.”
And there it was—a truth that my mother carried silently, a chapter of her life left unfinished. It left me questioning, reflecting on the choices we make, the parts of ourselves we surrender for the people we love. In the days following this discovery, I felt a profound sense of loss—not just for my mother’s unlived life, but for the parts of myself I’ve hidden, too.
The letters have become a cherished reminder of my mother’s complexity, her depth. They’ve sparked a journey of discovery—not just of her past, but of my own capacity for love, sacrifice, and understanding.
I wish I could have asked my mom about Michael, about her dreams and regrets. I wish I could have told her that it’s okay to hold onto the love that shapes us, even if it’s never fully realized.
As I sit here, writing this, I feel closer to her than I ever have, and for that, I am grateful. These threads of forgotten love have woven a new bond between us.
So here’s to hidden truths, to the whispers of the past that guide us, and to the courage to live more openly. Thanks for listening.