Hey everyone, this is going to be a bit different from what I usually post. I’ve been sitting on this for a while, and I think it’s time I share it. Maybe it’ll resonate with someone out there.
For years, I believed I knew everything there was to know about my mother. She passed away five years ago, and since then, her memory has been like an old quilt I’ve wrapped around myself for comfort. Quilts… I guess that’s where all this started.
A few weeks ago, I was helping my dad sort through some of her things—stuff he hadn’t had the heart to touch since she left us. Among her belongings, we found a small, dusty sewing box I had never seen before. Its presence was subtle, just an ordinary wooden box with a worn-out handle, but it drew me in like a magnet.
Inside, there were the usual things: spools of thread, a measuring tape, a pair of rusty scissors. But tucked beneath a layer of faded fabric scraps, I found a neatly folded piece of tissue paper. It unfolded with delicate precision to reveal a collection of letters, tied with a deep blue ribbon.
I could feel my heart thumping in my chest as I dared to open the first one. It was addressed to a man named Thomas. Who was Thomas?
The letters spanned over two decades, chronicling a relationship I had no idea existed. They spoke of hopes, dreams, and secret meetings. Each letter was infused with a raw passion and an aching sincerity. My mother’s words were filled with longing and tenderness, but also with a sense of duty and sacrifice.
As I sat on the floor, surrounded by a sea of memories, I felt like I was intruding on a part of her life she had kept hidden from everyone. But more than that, I felt like I was meeting my mother for the first time—not just the mother who packed my lunches and kissed my bruises better, but the woman who dared to love deeply and fiercely.
My thoughts spiraled into a storm of questions and emotions. Had my father known? Was she unhappy with us, with him? Why did she keep this a secret? As these questions churned in my mind, I realized I would never find answers, at least not from her.
Later that evening, I gathered some courage and approached my dad. The words stumbled out of my mouth as I showed him the letters. He glanced at them, and to my surprise, a soft smile crept onto his face. He looked at me, his eyes glistening under the dim kitchen light.
“I knew,” he said in a quiet voice. “Thomas was her first love. They grew up together. But life took them in different directions. She chose me, chose us… but I knew a part of her heart belonged to him.”
His words settled over me like a gentle rain, and for the first time since discovering the letters, I felt a sense of peace. My mother loved us deeply, but her love for Thomas didn’t diminish that. It was simply another part of her story, one she didn’t share but that shaped her nonetheless.
In the days that followed, I returned to that sewing box often. Each visit was like a quiet conversation with my mother. I realized that love is a complex, multifaceted thing. It can be shared in ways that don’t always fit neatly into the boxes we create.
As I write this, I feel both closer and further from her. Closer, in understanding her as a woman with dreams and desires of her own, and further, in knowing there will always be parts of her I will never fully understand. But that’s okay. We’re all a collection of stories, some we share openly and others we hold close.
Thanks for reading. Love deeply, cherish the ones you have, and be open to the stories that make them who they are.