My dad came home one afternoon looking pale and shaken. He sat down and quietly told me she had passed away after a short illness. It had been sudden. And there was no longer time for any of the conversations we never had.
That night, I opened the package.
Inside were handwritten letters and journal entries, along with a few photographs. One showed her holding me as a baby. Another captured her on a train platform. The third showed a quiet bookstore I didn’t recognize.
The first letter began:
“To my beautiful child, Nia… I know you probably hate me. And I understand. But please, read everything before you decide who I really was.”
I kept reading. Maybe it was the way she wrote my name, carefully and with love. Or maybe it was the honesty in her words—how she didn’t try to excuse what had happened, only to explain.
She wrote that she had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her early twenties. Her condition had led to both deep depression and unpredictable highs. After I was born, she said the love she felt for me overwhelmed her—and terrified her. She feared she wouldn’t be able to keep me safe.
She shared that she had made impulsive decisions during a manic episode, including spending money she didn’t have and causing a dangerous situation at home. After that, she admitted herself into a treatment facility.
My father had never told me.
She wrote that after years of therapy, medication, and hard work, she returned to rebuild her life. She took a job at the bookstore from the photo. She stayed consistent with her care. And she waited—hoping for the chance to make things right, even though she knew it might never come.
That night, I cried harder than I ever had. Not just out of grief, but for the years I spent carrying resentment. For never asking questions. For never leaving space for the possibility that there was more to the story.
The next day, I asked my dad, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He looked at me, eyes full of quiet pain. “I didn’t want you to grow up thinking she left because she was struggling,” he said. “I thought it would be easier if you saw her as the one who walked away.”
But it wasn’t easier. It just left more questions.
Then he said something I’ll never forget:
“She left because she loved you, in the only way she knew how. She wanted you to have peace. As hard as it was… I think she was trying to protect you.”
Later that week, I drove to the bookstore from the photo. The owner recognized her immediately. Her name was Maribel. They told me she was kind, quiet, and always writing during her lunch breaks. And she always asked if any new books had come in “for her daughter, Nia.”
They hadn’t even known I existed—but she spoke of me often.
Before I left, I bought the only copy of her novel on the shelf. It was about a mother and daughter finding their way back to each other after years apart.
It was fiction. But it wasn’t.
I read it that night. It was messy and raw, but full of heart. Like her letters. And somehow, through those words, I began to forgive her.
Not because everything was okay. But because she tried. Because love isn’t always perfect—but it’s powerful. And sometimes, love doesn’t mean staying. Sometimes, it means coming back.
If you’re holding onto hurt, I understand. But don’t wait too long to ask the questions. Don’t wait until it’s too late to open the package. Sometimes, the truth isn’t what you expect. And sometimes, healing starts with simply being willing to listen.