Last night, I stumbled upon a box I hadn’t opened in years. It was an old, dusty shoebox shoved deep into the back of my closet, guarded by layers of unworn clothes and forgotten trinkets of a life past. I had been in a decluttering frenzy, determined to start fresh, and there it was—unexpected but undeniably present, almost as if it were begging to be found.
The initial opening was benign—just a jumbled collection of knick-knacks: a broken watch, a few yellowing concert tickets, a tarnished silver bracelet. But then, tucked between the pages of a dog-eared book of poetry, I found a folded paper. It was a note, handwritten, its creases soft from years of being folded and refolded.
I remember a quickening of my heart as I recognized the handwriting. It was my late mother’s, unmistakably hers, with her elegant, looping script. It read: ‘You are loved more than you know.’
That’s it. Five simple words. Yet, they hit me with the force of a tidal wave.
Growing up, my relationship with my mother was complicated. She was warm but reserved, loving but sometimes distant. There was always an uncharted ocean between us, filled with unspoken words. Her sudden passing left me adrift, with a heart full of questions and an emptiness that seemed infinite.
I sat on the floor, the note perched on my trembling hands, and sobbed. It was like she was there, whispering those words I had longed to hear all my life. My tears felt cathartic, releasing years of pent-up doubt and resentment. In those moments, the years of perceived indifference melted away, replaced by a profound understanding.
As I sat there, memories of her flooded back with startling clarity. Her soft smile as she watched me from the kitchen doorway, her fingers gently brushing through my hair as I lay on her lap on lazy Sunday afternoons, her laughter—a melody of sincerity that echoed through our home. All these moments, buried beneath layers of adolescent misunderstanding, surfaced one by one, painting a picture of love that had been there all along.
I think back to the last time I saw her. It was a rainy November afternoon, the kind of gloomy day where the sun seems to shrink back in defeat. We had argued about something trivial, but I could see the sadness pooling in her eyes. I brushed it off, consumed by my own grievances, and left in a hurry. That was the last image I had of her, etched in my mind with regret.
But now, that note offers me a new lens to view those past moments. It tells me that despite the misunderstandings and the silences, there was a constant undercurrent of love that, though quiet, was steadfast.
In the days following my discovery, I found myself weaving this newfound truth into the tapestry of my life. I visited my childhood home more often, spoke to my siblings about our memories, shared stories about her with old friends. Each conversation, each memory, seemed to add a fresh layer of understanding and acceptance.
There’s a quiet power in the simple acknowledgment that you were loved. It’s like finding a missing piece of a puzzle you’ve been trying to solve your whole life. And while that realization doesn’t erase the years of doubt, it offers a gentle balm to soothe the old wounds.
As I write this, I’m sitting on the porch of my childhood home, the soft breeze brushing against my skin, the sun dipping below the horizon—a scene of serene beauty that feels like a nod from the universe.
I tuck that note into my wallet now, a small, folded reminder of the love that was always there. It’s a truth that was hidden in plain sight, unveiled by a simple, unexpected discovery. Life feels fuller now, richer with the knowledge that love is not always spoken, but it is always felt. And perhaps, that is the greatest truth of all.