Hi everyone,
I’m not even sure how to start this. I don’t usually share much here, but something happened recently that I need to unpack, and it feels right to do it with you all.
I was going through some old boxes in my attic, trying to declutter and hopefully reclaim some space. You know how attics are—filled with forgotten things, memories you thought you’d lost, or maybe hoped to forget. Amongst the dusty books, photo albums, and childhood toys, I found an old, worn scarf.
At first, it didn’t seem like anything significant. Just an ordinary, hand-knitted scarf, its colors faded from years of neglect. But as I picked it up, the scent of lavender drifted up, subtle yet unmistakable. It was a scent I knew well, a scent that tugged at something deep inside me.
This scarf belonged to my grandmother. She was a constant in my life, a gentle presence woven into my childhood with love and kindness. I’d all but forgotten about the scarf and the rituals attached to it. She used to knit these scarves for everyone in the family, infusing each with her favorite lavender. It was her way of keeping us warm and safe, wrapped in the love she couldn’t always express with words.
As I held the scarf, memories cascaded over me like a tidal wave. I remembered the nights I spent at her house, the two of us sitting by the fire, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically as she worked on yet another piece. I remembered her stories, told in a soft voice that seemed tailored to comfort and heal.
One memory floated to the surface, clearer than the others. I was about ten, and she was telling me a story about a princess and her lost kingdom. At the story’s end, she’d looked at me with eyes that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken things and said, “Always remember, some truths are like the stars—hidden in daylight but ever-present when the night comes.”
That phrase lingered with me for days, but its meaning remained elusive. Now, decades later, standing alone in my attic, that childhood memory unlocked something I’d pushed aside. I remember another conversation, or rather, a hushed argument between my parents.
My grandmother had passed away shortly after that, and things at home changed. My parents were suddenly more secretive, and I was often sent to stay with an aunt. I realize now that the change was because of something deeper than grief or loss.
With the scarf in my hands, I decided to talk to my mother. It took some coaxing, but she eventually shared the truth. My grandmother had been ill with a hereditary condition, something no one talked about because of the stigma attached at the time. They hadn’t told me because they wanted to protect me, but in doing so, they kept a part of my family’s history hidden.
My parents were tested, and we were lucky not to inherit the condition, but the fear of it, the shadow it cast, had been a silent presence, shaping decisions and actions I never understood until now.
In that moment, it felt as if a veil had lifted. The silence, the distance, the odd rules and restrictions—they all made sense now. I understand my parents’ choices and the burden of knowledge they carried alone, trying to shield me from the truth.
Discovering this doesn’t change my past, but it brings a new clarity to my present. Knowing the truth is freeing. I’m grateful for the protection, but I realize now that I would have tried to understand, even as a kid.
Holding that scarf, I felt connected to my grandmother once more. I realized that her love, much like the condition, had always been there, shaping me, even in her absence.
I feel lighter now, having shared this. I suppose what I’m trying to say is, remember to cherish the little things, and don’t be afraid to seek the truth. It might just be the thing that sets you free.
Thanks for listening.
