Hey everyone,
I never thought I’d be the type of person to pour my heart out on social media, but here I am. It’s amazing what a single thread can unravel, and I feel like I owe it to myself, and maybe to some of you, to share what’s been unfolding over the past few weeks.
It all started with a scarf. A simple, old scarf I found buried in a box while cleaning out my mom’s attic. I remember it vividly—the scarf was a deep burgundy with intricate golden threads woven through. It was tucked inside a dusty, forgotten box labeled ‘Winter’. I recognized it immediately as one my father used to wear.
My father. That’s a topic I’ve danced around for years. He left when I was ten, and I never really understood why. My mom didn’t talk about him much, and I guess over time, I just learned not to ask. But that scarf—it was like a portal to my past, stirring memories I didn’t realize were so close to the surface.
I sat with it for a while, the fabric rough but comforting in my hands. I remember the way it smelled of his cologne, something woodsy and warm, a scent that inexplicably made me feel safe, even now. But it wasn’t just nostalgia pulling me in. There was something more, something I needed to uncover.
I decided to ask my mom about it. We had never really talked about why he left, but I needed to know if that scarf could tell me anything more about him. When I showed it to her, her eyes softened in a way I hadn’t seen in years. She looked at me, a mix of sadness and relief in her gaze, and said, “I was wondering when you’d find that.”
We sat down at the kitchen table, and as the afternoon light spilled through the windows, my mother began to speak. She told me things I never knew—or maybe never wanted to know. My father hadn’t left because he didn’t love us. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He was sick, and he didn’t want us to see him deteriorate. He thought it would be easier for us to remember him as he was.
I felt shock, anger, and an overwhelming sadness at once. My whole life, I believed he had abandoned us. I felt unwanted, like I wasn’t enough. But hearing this, it was like a floodgate opened—I understood his decision, as painful as it was.
We sat there for hours, untangling the knots of our past. I learned that his diagnosis had come suddenly, that he had asked my mother to keep his illness private. They argued, she fought him on it, but in the end, she respected his wishes.
Tears welled up in my eyes as the truth settled in, heavy yet liberating. My hands gripped the scarf, that piece of him I could hold onto. It was as if he was silently saying he loved me, and I finally heard him.
In the days following, I wore that scarf everywhere. It was a reminder not of his absence, but of his love. I connected with relatives I hadn’t spoken to in years, piecing together stories and memories.
And slowly, I felt something shift within me. A healing of sorts. I realized I could choose to carry the spirit of love and forgiveness, rather than the weight of what-ifs. I think my father would have wanted that.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. I guess I just wanted to say that sometimes the truth can be painful, but it can also set us free. We can find pieces of ourselves in the most unexpected places, and it’s never too late to open our hearts.
Much love,
Sarah
