Hey everyone,
I know this is out of the blue, but I feel a need to share something deeply personal. I hope you might understand why I’m opening up about it here. It’s a story about discovering truths that were hidden in plain sight, about unraveling the threads of my life and finding the one that connects everything.
Last week, I was going through the attic. I’ve been meaning to declutter for ages, but kept putting it off. It’s not exactly a treasure trove, mostly old school projects, broken gadgets, and random odds and ends. Among the dust and cobwebs, I stumbled upon a small, unassuming box. It was covered in floral print, the kind that you don’t really notice at first, but then cannot stop looking at once you do.
Inside, I found letters—yellowed with age, with my mother’s name written in a script I didn’t recognize, not her usual hurried scrawl. The paper was thin and delicate, like it had soaked up decades of stories. There was a card, too, a simple thank you card that seemed so out of place.
But it was the scent that struck me first. It was incredibly familiar, a blend of lavender and something earthy. I realized it was my mother’s scent, the one that always seemed to linger around her even after she left a room.
I sank to the dusty floor, my fingers trembling as I read the first letter. Written to my mother by someone named Estelle—someone I had never heard of. The words were filled with warmth and affection, and as I read on, it was clear they had shared something profound. For a moment, I thought I was intruding on something private, but the pull was too strong to resist.
The letters painted a picture of a time when my mother was young—brighter, less encumbered by the weight I always saw in her eyes. Estelle wrote about how they’d spent afternoons painting the sky, how they’d dream about futures filled with laughter and endless possibilities. I recognized my mother in these stories, but it felt like looking at a half-remembered dream.
And then, there it was—the truth I was not expecting.
Estelle was more than a friend; she was my mother’s partner. They had shared a life intertwined with love and unspoken promises. The thank you card wasn’t just a thank you—it was a goodbye. Estelle had to leave, and my mother chose to stay behind, for reasons that were only hers to understand.
In that small attic, surrounded by forgotten memories, I faced a truth my mother carried with her till her last breath—a part of her she never shared, not even with me. I don’t know why she kept it hidden, whether it was fear or societal pressure, but I know it shaped her, and in turn, shaped me too.
I remember her being the strongest person I knew, but now, seeing her through Estelle’s eyes, I realize she was also the bravest.
I spent the rest of the day reading their correspondence, feeling the echoes of their laughter, their sadness, and their hopes that never came to be. Each letter was a thread pulling me closer to them.
Since that day, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to live authentically. My mother chose a path that hid a part of her, yet she gave me everything she could. I wish she had felt safe enough to share this part of herself with me; perhaps she wanted to protect me in some way. But, she left behind these letters, and maybe that’s her way of reaching out now.
Tonight, sitting here, I feel a piece of the puzzle come together. I understand a bit more why she was the way she was—loving, yet distant at times. It makes me think about the parts of myself I hide from the world. Maybe it’s time to stop.
My heart is lighter knowing this truth. I feel closer to her, closer to the woman she was, both in joy and sorrow. I see her now, truly, and I love her even more for it.
Thank you for listening.
#FindingTruth #LoveEndures #HiddenStories
