Hey everyone,
I’ve been sitting here with a lump in my throat, fingers hovering over the keyboard for what feels like hours. But I need to let this out, to share, and maybe find some peace in the echo of this confession. Bear with me, this is a long one, but it’s my heart on a page.
I grew up in a small coastal town. You probably know the type—where everyone smiles across their coffee cups at the local diner and waves at neighbors in cars passing down the single main street. It was an idyllic place to be a child, but hidden beneath the sunny façade was a dull weight I carried with me, unknowingly, for years.
I didn’t know my dad. He left when I was too young to form memories of him—just a haze of tall shadows and laughter that echoed like the ocean waves crashing on the shore. Mom never spoke about him. Not a word. She’d close up tighter than a clam when his name was mentioned, so I learned not to ask.
One summer, when I was about eight, I found a small piece of sea glass on the beach. It was a smooth, modest fragment, yet it shimmered in the sunlight with hues of blue and green. For reasons I couldn’t understand then, it felt like a treasure. I slipped it into my pocket that day and held onto it for years, a totem of belonging and mystery.
Last week, I was cleaning out some old boxes in the attic, going through things that had once meant so much. I found that little piece of sea glass wrapped in a yellowed handkerchief. As I held it, a strange feeling washed over me, like an incoming tide. It was as if the sea glass was urging me to look deeper, to question the stories I had accepted as truth.
Suddenly, a memory clicked into place. My father. I remembered his silhouette against the fading light, bending down to pick something off the ground, a glint of blue and green. My heart pounded as I clutched the glass tighter, its edges pressing into my palm. What had been missing all these years was more than just him—it was the space he left behind, the void filled with unspoken words and hidden truths.
The next day, buoyed by a newfound resolve, I approached my mother. The conversation started over a cup of tea, the kettle’s whistle still echoing through the kitchen. I asked about him, gently, as if coaxing a shy creature from its burrow. For the first time, she didn’t retreat. Her eyes glistened, reflecting the same shades of blue and green as the sea glass.
“He loved the ocean,” she said, voice trembling like the tide. “He used to say the sea knows all our secrets.”
I listened as she talked, each word revealing a piece of the puzzle I never knew I was piecing together. She spoke of love, of the dream they both shared to sail across the world, and of how the arrival of a child changed everything. The dream they couldn’t have, the weight of choices they made, and the quiet departure of a man who felt he could never be enough.
In that moment, I understood my father more than I ever had. And understood my mother. Her silence hadn’t been neglect; it was her way of protecting us both from the pain, from the truth that stung like saltwater on skin.
The sea glass, this small, unexpected reminder, had led me to a personal truth—one hidden in plain sight, like a mirage on the horizon. It taught me the power of forgiveness, and the importance of breaking silence to heal.
I still carry it with me, this small piece of the past. It rests on my bedside, a reminder of stories untold, of the love that lingers in spaces we don’t often explore. I feel lighter now, no longer weighed down by what was missing, but enriched by what I’ve found.
Thank you for reading, for letting me share. Sometimes, the smallest things hold the greatest meaning, illuminating paths we never thought to wander.
Take care of each other.
Love,
[Your Name]