Hey everyone. I never thought I’d be here, sharing something so personal with all of you. But something happened recently, something that shook me to my core, and I can’t keep it bottled up anymore. Maybe writing it down will help me make sense of it all.
A few weeks ago, I was helping my mom clean out the attic. We’ve lived in the same house my whole life, so it’s not surprising that the attic is a treasure trove of forgotten relics, dusty boxes, and memories. As I stood there, surrounded by the smell of old wood and mothballs, something caught my eye — a tapestry, tucked away in a corner, draped over a pile of boxes.
It was a faded piece of fabric, intricately woven with patterns and colors that had dulled with age. I don’t ever remember seeing it before. I asked my mom about it, but she just shrugged and said it must have been something my grandmother had made. I decided to take it down to have a closer look.
As I unfolded it in the dim light, something fell out — an old photograph. It was of a woman I didn’t recognize, standing next to a young girl who looked eerily like me at that age. The woman had her arm around the girl, both smiling at the camera. Their eyes seemed to twinkle with a secret understanding.
Intrigued, I asked my mom about the photo. I noticed her face tense up, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes. ‘That’s Aunt Helen,’ she said quietly, almost too softly. Her voice carried an undertone of sadness that I hadn’t heard before.
I had never heard of an Aunt Helen.
Later that night, unable to let it go, I pressed my mom for more information. Sighing, she started to tell me a story that unraveled years of silence. Aunt Helen was her older sister, someone she loved dearly, but had disappeared from our lives when I was still very young.
‘She had… issues,’ my mom explained, her voice a mix of regret and nostalgia. Apparently, Helen struggled with mental health, and during a particularly difficult period, she made the decision to leave, cutting off all contact to protect us from her unraveling life. My parents had chosen not to tell me, thinking it was easier that way.
I sat there, stunned, feeling a new kind of grief for a person I had never truly known but had nonetheless shaped part of my existence. All this time, there was a part of my life, my identity even, that was unknown to me.
In the days that followed, I found myself wandering through memories, piecing together fragmented recollections of dreams and half-remembered stories. I couldn’t shake the sense of emptiness, a missing piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving.
Driven by an urge I couldn’t quite explain, I decided to learn more about Helen. I found old letters in the attic, penned in her handwriting — beautiful, looping letters that spoke of love and regret, glimpses into the struggles she faced with a heartbreaking honesty. It was as if I was seeing my family, and myself, through a new lens.
My mother and I began to have long conversations, tear-filled and raw, about Helen and the impact of her absence. Our talks became a way to honor her memory, and slowly, they mended unseen scars in our own relationship. We both found a strange comfort in acknowledging Helen’s presence in our lives.
This journey has been painful but also liberating. I realized that just because a story is hidden doesn’t mean it isn’t yours. Aunt Helen might have been lost to us physically, but her essence, her struggles, her undeniable love, had been woven into the tapestry of my life all along, waiting to be acknowledged.
So here I am, sharing this with you, reaching out across the ether, hoping that in some way, this helps someone else. We all carry stories within us, hidden in the corners of our hearts, waiting to be told.
Thanks for listening.
