Hey everyone. I’ve spent a lot of time ghosting on this platform, scrolling past confessions and stories, feeling grateful for anonymity. But today, I feel compelled to share something that’s been reshaping my heart over the past few weeks.
A month ago, while helping my mom declutter our attic, I stumbled upon a dusty blue box lined with faded golden stars. It was tucked away in a far corner, buried under layers of forgotten holiday decorations and mismatched storage containers. Honestly, it was the kind of box that seemed like it belonged in someone else’s attic, not ours. It piqued my curiosity instantly.
Initially, mom was reluctant to let me explore its contents. She hesitated, her voice catching in that way she does when memories threaten to choke her words. “It’s just old papers, honey,” she said. But I sensed something deeper—something written in the lines around her eyes.
She eventually relented, and I carried the box downstairs, placing it carefully in the middle of our living room floor. I opened it slowly, the lid creaking like a cry of a forgotten past. Inside were stacks of journals, their spines cracked and pages yellowed, filled with handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Most were drafts of stories and poems, some with doodles in the margins. One of the notebooks, however, stood out. It was in pristine condition compared to the others. Its cover bore the title ‘For My Ellie’ — my name — written in a flourishing script that felt like a gentle whisper from the past.
Confused and curious, I began reading. The entries were letters to me from a person I’d never truly known. They were from my father, who passed away when I was just a toddler. He had started writing them the day I was born, intending for me to read them when I was old enough to understand.
Through his words, he was more real to me than he had ever been before. He wrote about his hopes and dreams for me, how he wished to see me grow, to teach me about stars and music, and to show me how to ride a bike in our neighborhood park.
Tears slipped down my cheeks as I read his words, feeling the warmth of his love embracing me from beyond time. But amidst the joy of discovering his love, I found entries that were harder to stomach. They unveiled his struggles, his fears, and the battles he fought with depression—a truth my mother had shielded me from.
He wrote candidly about the days he couldn’t get out of bed, the appointments with therapists, and his fear that he wouldn’t see me become the person he so vividly imagined. They were stark truths scrawled in tender handwriting, a testament to his vulnerability.
Mom found me hours later, still surrounded by journals. Her eyes softened with understanding and a hint of shared pain. I asked her about my father, about the things he wrote. She sat beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder, and for the first time, she shared stories of their life together—stories that were beautiful yet tinged with the bittersweetness of his struggles.
It was in his weakness, she said, that his strength shone brightest, a strength she had always hoped I would one day understand.
As I continue reading his letters, I feel more connected to him than I ever thought possible. Each entry is a conversation with a man I never got to grow up with, but who I now know loved fiercely, despite his demons. I’ve realized that while he couldn’t physically be there for me, he left behind a legacy of love and truth that was waiting for me to discover.
Now, every morning as I sip my coffee, I read another letter. They’ve become my ritual, my way of filling the space he left, and in doing so, I find healing. I’m learning to embrace the full spectrum of who he was, not just the image I’d constructed from photographs and second-hand stories.
These journals have helped me forgive the past I never understood and embrace the future I want to create, a future where I carry his lessons and love forward.
Thank you for reading. If you have a chance to ask about your own family’s stories, I hope you do. You might uncover truths that change everything, just like I did. 💙