Hey everyone,
I wasn’t sure if I should post this, but I feel like I need to. Sometimes, sharing can help untangle thoughts, give them wings, or maybe just a little light.
A week ago, I was at my parents’ house, a place I hadn’t visited in years. It felt strange, familiar yet distant. The smell of old wood and lavender air freshener still lingered, a sort of welcome that was unique to our home. My mom had asked me to help clear out the attic, a task long overdue.
I climbed the creaky wooden stairs, each step a journey into the past. As I reached the dusty space filled with forgotten relics, something caught my eye—a small, ornately carved music box that sat precariously on a stack of aged photo albums.
I remembered seeing it as a child. It was my grandmother’s, a gift she cherished until the day she passed. My mom had tucked it away, maybe too painful a reminder of loss. I picked it up, brushed the dust off, and as my fingertips traced its intricate patterns, a rush of memories flooded back.
I wound it up and let it play; a soft, haunting melody filled the room, notes swirling like ghosts.
Then I noticed it—a tiny drawer I’d never seen before, cleverly hidden in the side. With a hesitant finger, I opened it to find a piece of paper folded many times over, yellowed with age.
With a curious heart, I opened it. There, in my grandmother’s elegant handwriting, was a letter addressed to me. To me, after all these years.
I sat down, the attic forgotten, as I read her words:
‘My dearest Lily,
If you are reading this, it means you have found the music box and maybe, just maybe, you are ready. I have kept secrets, ones I felt were necessary at the time. But now, with the wisdom of age, I see things differently.
I want to tell you about your father, the man I knew before he became the one you know now. He loved music, like you do. But he lost himself along the way, caught up in things that pulled him away from us. Music was our world, and yet it became his escape, his way of shutting out the pain he couldn’t face.
You have his gift, Lily. The way your fingers caress the piano keys, it’s magical. Never lose that. But also, never let it be the silence between you and those you love. Let it be a bridge, not a wall.
I love you more than words can say. Find your truth, it will set you free.
Yours forever,
Grandma.’
In those few paragraphs, a revelation that shook me. I had felt the distance with my father, a silence that stretched wider with each passing year, but I never understood why. Now, I saw him not just as the distant, quiet man I knew, but as someone who loved deeply and hurt quietly.
I sat in that attic for hours, processing, crying, feeling the weight of understanding shift something inside me. My grandma’s words wrapped around me, a kind of comfort I hadn’t known I needed.
Since that day, I’ve reached out to my dad. It’s awkward, a dance of hesitant steps and unsure words, but we’re trying. Last night, we played a duet on the piano, a moment I never imagined would happen.
This music box, this letter, they’ve given me a gift—a way to see my father, and myself, anew. I’m learning that some truths, though hidden, are worth the wait.
Thank you for reading.
Love, Lily
