Hey everyone, I’ve never posted something like this before, but I feel like I need to share a part of myself that’s been buried for too long. This might be a long read, but I hope you’ll bear with me.
It started a few weeks ago, in the attic of my childhood home. My parents had decided to downsize, and as their only child, it fell on me to help sort through decades of memories. Boxes piled upon boxes, filled with old photos, toys, and forgotten trinkets. It was a dusty sanctuary of the past.
In a corner, beneath a faded quilt my grandmother had stitched, I found a small, unassuming shoebox. It was tied with a piece of fraying twine, and curiosity got the better of me. Inside were letters — dozens of them, in my mother’s handwriting — addressed to a person I had never heard of.
As I read them, a quiet realization settled over me. Each letter spoke of dreams and regrets, a deep longing and unfulfilled desires. They weren’t love letters in the traditional sense but spoke of a friendship that went beyond the ordinary boundaries. They were addressed to someone named Sarah.
I confronted my mother that evening. As we sat together in the dim living room, she told me a story that changed everything I thought I knew about her. Sarah had been her closest friend, someone she had met in college. They had shared everything, their hopes and fears, until life had led them apart.
There was a particular line in one of the letters that resonated with me, ‘In you, I see the colors of the world I wish I could paint.’ It was such a tender admission. My mother explained that Sarah had been the sister she never had, the person who understood her in ways my father never could. There had once been a possibility for something more, but society, family expectations, and the burden of secrets were walls too high to climb.
As she spoke, I saw her differently — not just as my mother but as a woman with her own story, her own heartaches and unfinished business. I realized that we often pigeonhole our parents in roles that suit us, not seeing the full spectrum of who they are. These letters were a testament to a different facet of her soul, one that was softly sad but also beautiful in its sincerity.
Our conversation was cathartic. It brought us closer, bridging a gap I hadn’t realized existed. She felt relieved to share this hidden part of her life, and I felt privileged to witness her truth. Her vulnerability became a gift, one that redefined our relationship.
Since that night, I’ve kept the letters in a small wooden box on my nightstand. They remind me every day of the importance of seeing people wholly, of understanding that everyone carries within them untold stories, unarticulated emotions, and quiet yearnings.
Thank you for reading this little part of my journey. I hope it encourages you to look deeper into the lives of those you think you know. Maybe you’ll find a story that changes everything in the best way possible.