My mom left when I was seven. One night she was braiding my hair and humming lullabies. The next morning, she was gone. Dad told me she had abandoned us and never cared.
I believed him.
When she tried to reach out over the years, I ignored her. I tore up birthday cards. Declined calls. Blocked messages. When I turned twenty-one, she begged to see me, saying she was sick and running out of time.
I told her, “You’re already dead to me,” and hung up.
Five months later, a young man came into the café where I worked. He had my eyes. My smile. He said my name softly.
“I’m your brother. Our mom passed away two days ago.”
He handed me a worn canvas bag with my name written in her handwriting. Inside were hundreds of photos of me as a baby. Locks of my hair. My first tooth. Dozens of handwritten letters—one for every birthday, every holiday, every year she missed.
She never stopped loving me.
In her longest letter, she explained why she left and how she’d tried to come back. How my dad kept her away.
I sat on the floor sobbing, surrounded by proof of a love I never allowed myself to believe in.
I wish I’d listened. I wish I’d given her one chance to speak.
Sometimes the deepest regrets come from the words we never let ourselves hear.
