I always believed my mother and I were all we had until her will proved otherwise. It wasn’t until I found a letter tucked away in her room that the truth began to surface.
I loved my mother deeply. But never had a father.
When I was little and Father’s Day came around, I felt lost.
My mother, Margaret, would just say, “It’s always been you and me, Claire. That’s more than enough.” I believed her. Or at least I tried to.
I loved my mother deeply. But never had a father.
The problem was that my mother was always distant. She cared for me and ensured I had everything I needed. Yet she never hugged me, and when I cried, she’d pat my shoulder instead of pulling me close.
I used to stand in the doorway of her bedroom at night when I was seven.
“Mom?” I’d say.
“Yes?”
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”
She never hugged me.
She used to say, “You’re a big girl, Claire. You’ll be fine in your own room.”
I would nod and walk away, pretending it didn’t sting.
She rarely showed up to my school plays. Afterward, she claimed it was because of a migraine. We never had long, heartfelt conversations over tea about life or my relationships. But when I graduated from college, she was there.
When I hugged her after the ceremony, she stiffened. “I’m proud of you.”
It sounded rehearsed.
“You’re a big girl, Claire.”
After graduation, I moved to another city for work. I built an independent life. I worked at a marketing firm, rented a small apartment, and filled my weekends with friends who felt more like family than anyone else ever had.
From time to time, I called her and sometimes visited.
“How are you feeling?” I would ask on a call.
“I’m fine.”
“How’s the house?”
“It’s the same.”
I built an independent life.
Our conversations were always short. Mom never asked much about my life. I eventually accepted it.
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