For My Daughter

I felt as if there should be tears. I felt as if I should have grief or stronger emotions. It all felt incredibly mundane, however. It’s not that I wasn’t sad; I knew I’d miss her, but there was a strong sense of relief now that she was dead. I felt I could finally breathe. I felt like a pressure and a weight had been lifted off of me. I grieved more for the mother she never was, the one I always wanted, because now she’d never get the chance. I grieved more for the people whose lives she more positively affected, those who would be sad to see her impact on the world end. But my relationship with her, my real relationship with her, was always much darker, less loving than most people realized. There was so much about me that she made sure I knew she could not accept. That broke my heart every time I was reminded. I was sad and would miss her, but I felt I could be more myself than ever before.  

My eyes were dry going through her boxed-up belongings in the garage. My expression was neutral as I sorted and sifted through most of her items that would end up in Goodwill. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. I didn’t need strangers telling me I was a monster for throwing out her dresses and romance novels. I never understood people who felt like keeping everything in place like a shrine to someone’s previous existence. I didn’t need that with my mother. I certainly didn’t need her abundance of cross necklaces or Bibles to remind me who my mother was. 

I continued sorting without a thought until I came across a cardboard box, neatly taped up and labeled “for my daughter” in her perfect handwriting. I hesitated, looking at it. There were a million things that could be in this box, and I was certain they were all going to hurt me far worse than her death did. I wished momentarily I had waited for my brothers to arrive before going through things, but I knew neither of them cared about getting this done as quickly as I did. They were properly grieving. 

I stared at the box for a while before finally opening it. I debated fixing myself a drink beforehand but decided just to go for it. On top was a letter with my name on it. Underneath looked like layers of photo albums and books. Curious. My hands were shaking as I opened the letter. 

My dearest daughter,

I know I was not always the best mother to you. I know I caused a lot of hurt and problems in your life. I am so sorry for that. I regret how I had treated you in the past and how I shunned different parts of you that I didn’t want to accept. You were always my sparkling jewel, my darling girl, and I should have spent more time making you feel that way. Please forgive me and know how much I desperately love you. 

Love, Mom

I read the letter over several more times until my eyes were too blurry with tears. I felt like a huge lump had risen in my chest. Now the grief came, but along with it I felt anger, resentment, and pain. When had she written this letter? How long had she felt this way? Why did she never try to make it up to me or fix it while she was still alive? These were questions I knew I’d live with the rest of my life, and they would never be answered. All I had was this letter and the box in front of me. 

I put the letter aside and looked through the rest of the box. The photo albums were all my achievements throughout my life. It started with elementary school, winning the spelling bee and best Halloween costume. She had documented all the awards I’d gotten for cross country and track. All of the honorable mentions and awards for my acting and creative writing through school. Below were all the books I had written, collections of my online articles, and pictures of me as a volunteer for animals. She had followed it all and kept a log. I understood at that moment something I could only guess at before because she had never said it out loud: she was proud of me. For all of our problems, arguments, and the fight that ultimately led to me walking out… she was proud of me. 

I collapsed to the floor and cried out a wailing that I had never felt before. I missed her. I hurt for the relationship we never had. I was mad and hurt. I felt regret and disdain, but mostly I missed her. In all of herself, I missed her. I clung to the letter like it would allow me to be with her and boxed up my life that she had kept. It wasn’t a family heirloom or something special she had put aside for just me. It was pieces of my life she had kept for herself. But now it felt like something she had created for me. A final peace offering in the time of her death. I hadn’t planned on keeping much of anything, but I knew this was something I was holding onto for the rest of my life. 

I wasn’t sure where to go from here. I knew I couldn’t keep sorting through her things so carelessly. Instead, I got up and took myself into the house and into her bedroom. I grabbed her ratty, red cotton robe and put it on. It still smelt like her. I put on the teapot and started to make a cup of her Good Earth tea. I lit one of her citrus-scented candles and scrolled through her recently watched list. I felt as if she were with me, surrounding me. I got up to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. I took several deep breaths and started to respond to her letter.