I once found my mothers diary, and when I read its pages the reason for the way she had always treated me differently from my siblings finally unfolded.
From childhood I sensed that something was amiss, that I was a misplaced piece in the family picture. My brother James and my younger sister Emily seemed to fit perfectly into Mothers heart. She always had gentle words, endless patience, and a tender concern for them.
For me, however, there was a cool distance that has lingered like a chill ever since I was a child. I never understood why, and I spent years inventing explanations for it.
Had I failed to meet her expectations? Had I done something wrong? Those questions followed me all my life, until the day I uncovered something that altered my view of the whole family forever.
Mother passed away a few months ago. Only now have I gathered the courage to sort through her belongings. James and Emily took care of the paperwork and legal matters. I was left with the harder task sifting through the personal trinkets that nobody else wanted to touch.
The old wardrobe was still scented with the perfume she used to wear. I ran my fingers over the fabrics, recalling the cold evenings of my youth when I longed for her closeness, only to receive a frosty glance and a whisper, Im busy now.
At the very bottom of a drawer I discovered something I never expected a dustcovered notebook bound with a thin ribbon. I opened it gingerly, my heart beating harder with each turn. The first page bore only my mothers name, Eleanor, and the year 1978 the year I was born.
The opening entries were filled with youthful hopes and mundane notes, read with a mixture of sorrow and curiosity. It was not until I reached the autumn entries that the floor seemed to fall from beneath me.
Today I told John Im pregnant. He stared at me for a long moment, then said, I cant, Eleanor. You know I have a family. I never promised you anything more. He walked away, leaving me alone on a park bench. I thought I would die of grief. How will I tell my husband? How will I tell the children?
I read on, each line tearing at me more than the last. Every entry revealed a truth I had unknowingly feared all my life. The man I had always called my father was not my biological dad. The man my mother loved without hope had rejected her, leaving her solitary. Her marriage, though it survived, had been scarred the moment I entered the world.
I gave birth to a little girl. When I look at her I see his face. I dont know if Ill ever be able to love her as I did my other children. She is a living reminder of my weakness, my shame. Every glance at her hurts.
I read that sentence over and over, tears refusing to stop. Only now did I understand why Mother had always been different with me. I was an unknowing reminder of her greatest mistake, of a love that never came to fruition. She could not separate the pain of the child she bore from the pain of her own life.
I sat for a long time in her bedroom, notebook on my lap, weeping for both our fates. Anger, regret, sorrow, and above all a deep sense of loss flooded me all those years when I received indifference instead of affection. Yet, for the first time, I felt a pang of compassion for her. How much must she have suffered, keeping that secret for so long?
In the days that followed I began to view my own life through a new lens. I had always feared rejection, doubting that I deserved love now I knew why. My mother had carried a grief that she, unknowingly, passed onto me. The discovery forced me to reconsider who I truly was a daughter who was never wanted, or a woman who could still love despite everything?
I talked to James and Emily, telling them about the diary. They were stunned. James pulled me into an embrace; Emily wept for a long while. They admitted they had always sensed I was treated differently, though they could not name it. Their love for me did not waver perhaps it even grew stronger.
Today, though the wounds are still fresh, I no longer ask why? I understand that Mother could never rise above her own trauma. I have forgiven her, because I know how hard it is to bear a secret that keeps bleeding for a lifetime. I have resolved not to let the past define the rest of my days. I have started therapy, trying to rebuild my sense of worth. I am learning to love myself, a feeling I never truly experienced before.
Even if I was born from anothers mistake, my life is worth just as much as anyone elses. I have a right to be happy, to accept myself, and to love as Mother never could love me.
Perhaps now, armed with the truth, I can finally live a life free from fear and shame, in harmony with the woman I have become.
