Hey everyone, I know it’s late, but I can’t keep this to myself any longer. Over the past few days, I’ve been grappling with something that I need to share. I hope you’ll bear with me as I unravel this story.
You see, for as long as I can remember, my mom kept a small box on the top shelf in our living room. It was one of those intricately carved wooden boxes with a faint smell of sandalwood, you know the kind. It was beautiful and mysterious, like a relic from a different time.
Growing up, I always asked her about that box. I was a pretty curious kid, always asking questions, wanting to know what was inside. She would just smile softly and say it was nothing important, just some old letters. Her eyes would get this faraway look, and then she’d pat my head and distract me with something else.
After she passed away last year, I couldn’t bring myself to touch anything in her room for a long time. Every corner was filled with memories, each one just as vivid as the last. But a few days ago, as I sat surrounded by her things, I couldn’t help but pull the box down from its dusty perch.
Inside, there wasn’t much. Some photographs, a few dried flowers, and an envelope. It was worn and slightly yellowed with age. There was no address, just my name written in my mother’s elegant script. My hands trembled as I picked it up.
I can’t describe the tidal wave of emotions that hit me as I opened it. There were two letters inside. One was from my mom, and the other was from someone named Eliza.
Reading my mom’s letter was like hearing her voice again. She poured her heart out, telling me stories of her youth, her dreams, and how much she loved being my mother. But then she mentioned Eliza, a friend from her past she never spoke of, aside from this letter.
Eliza’s letter was equally heartfelt. She described a deep friendship that spanned years, ending with a decision that changed both their lives—my mother deciding to have me on her own.
I never knew the solitude my mom faced in those early years of motherhood was a choice. I never understood the strength it took for her to make that decision, always believing she had simply been alone. But this letter revealed a friendship that had buoyed her through the hardest times.
I sat in silence for a while, staring at the letters. My heart felt heavy, yet strangely light. The truth of her strength, her vulnerability, and her immense capacity for love was both humbling and uplifting.
This discovery changed everything and nothing all at once. It was like meeting a different side of her, one she had kept protected. I now carry this knowledge with a sense of pride, and an immense gratitude for both her and Eliza. They taught me the power of choices, and the courage of carrying them alone.
I guess I wanted to share this because sometimes we don’t realize the depth of the lives our loved ones have lived. They have entire worlds behind their eyes that we might never fully know. But when those worlds are revealed, they can change us forever. So, here’s to our loved ones, and the silent battles they fight with grace.
Thanks for listening. I feel like I’m starting to heal, and I owe it to the memory of my mom and her dear friend, Eliza.
