I wrote him a letter in February 2014, but didn’t actually send
it until March 2015. I carried it with me for over a year, coming across it
from time to time and reading my own words again, searching my heart for
permission to mail the darn thing. When I finally put the stamp on it and put
it in the outgoing mail, I did so with a bit of relief. I did so with a promise
to myself that I would let it go from that point forward.
In the letter, I said what my heart felt – that losing Mom made me realize life is short. I feared that he would die believing he was unloved, and I wanted him to know that I loved him. I expected (and hoped for) no reply. I was ready to move forward and heal.
In the letter, I said what my heart felt – that losing Mom made me realize life is short. I feared that he would die believing he was unloved, and I wanted him to know that I loved him. I expected (and hoped for) no reply. I was ready to move forward and heal.
He wrote me a letter and it landed in my hands on Mother’s
Day; his confused and broken heart revealed in the typed words that my
stepmother had put on paper for him. His distorted view of a life of regrets,
his self-justification in order to remain unaccountable, written for my eyes to read over and
over again if I choose. I’ve read it thrice.
It was a brief reply, but it held for me unwritten memories of years
of separation, years of uncertainty, years of abandonment. As I stood in our
kitchen reading his words, my feelings rushed to the surface in a wave of
emotion. Memories of hurt and hope and disappointment and longing rising up, my
love and undeserving adoration for him crashing into the earth in one giant
heap.
And there, at the bottom of the page was his signature. It
was there almost as one final slap – his own handwriting under the lines of typed
words scrawled out like a seal of conviction. Right there, for my eyes to see, he wrote his first name
instead of writing “Dad.”
How unfortunate, yet fitting, that I would read his letter on Mother’s Day this year. His words unknowingly validating once again what an amazing mother she had been. How even in his absence and return and absence and return and absence, she persevered and was a parent like none other. She was our mom and our dad and our rock.
10 comments:
I am not sure what to say, Deb, for your words are poignant, raw and thoughtful. I am thinking of you ...
I'm echoing Alexa's comment ... thinking of you and sending you my love, dear courageous friend. xx
Oh Deb, what a touching post today. These life experiences have made you the person you are today, and it just underlines what a brilliant mother you had.
I,too,echo Alexa's words on reading this heartfelt post,Deb....sending you so much love.
Hugs to you Deb. And kind thoughts for peace and resolution. This is heartbreaking and beautiful
so personal and raw, and yet so beautifully written deb. Sending you love and prayers. I never met your mom deb, over the years we've come to know each other. but I do know she must have been an extraordinary person to have raised our sweet wonderful deb. xoxo
Big, huge, loving, juicy hugs for you, my dear friend!!! It took so much courage to send that letter ~ I'm very proud of you. My beautiful courageous friend. XOXOXOXO
A note with love from me Deb.
!!!!!
Oh my gosh, Deb!!! This is so incredible! You are so brave to reach out to him! So wise to see him as he is and not as you wish you was! So generous to read what he had to say.
Sometimes I wonder what's next for me. Will the death of a parent change my life's trajectory in some way? and how? And then I look at how the death of your mother has changed your life and I do NOT feel scared AT ALL. I feel inspired and EXCITED about what is next for me. You just seem to be blossoming, blossoming, blossoming. I LOVE it. And I am so glad to know what little I do of your story.
Thanks Deb. xo
Your writing has moved me to tears and I wish I was there to embrace you and tell you what an amazing daughter Marti raised.
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