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That was the last time I had spoken to my mother. Looking back at it now, I had been so cold and calloused. She had tried so many times to tell me, to let me know what was going on, but I had been so blinded by my own anger that I disregarded her.
I stared at the letter in my hand. The very last letter my mother ever wrote to me. There were almost a hundred letters back in my apartment in a shoebox behind my coats in the closet.
She had told me her secrets and the new person she had become. Letters that I had chosen never to read, but now I wanted more than anything to open all of them.
There were so many questions I had that only she could answer. There were so many wounds that just kept on bleeding and only she could stop them.
I held the letter in my hand, contemplating what I should do with it. She was gone now, and there was no turning back time. So, what would be the point of the letter then? It wouldn’t bring her back. It wouldn’t heal Ethan, and I knew it would only cause me more distress.
There were very few moments in my life where I found myself baffled and unsure of what the next move was. This was one of those moments.
I didn’t know what to do with the letter. I was too scared to read it here, but I also knew if I left this place, I still wouldn’t read it. I wasn’t ready to hear the words she had for me. I was scared she would hate me, and her words would tell me that. I would have deserved it, though.
Dammit, Mom.
