Reading the diary, I realized a side of my mother I had never known. The entries began when I was just a baby. She wrote about her dreams, her love for my father, and her hopes for our family. But as I read further, I uncovered the reasons behind her frugality.
For illustrative purpose only. (Source: Pexels)
That was her struggles with my father’s hidden gambling a:ddic:tion. She had been trying to save every penny to keep us afloat, to pay off debts my father had incurred without my knowledge. She shielded me from the harsh reality of our financial situation, sacrificing her own desires and reputation in my eyes to ensure we had a roof over our heads.
One entry stood out: “Today, I had to drain Cara’s college fund. Henry’s debts have caught up to us. I couldn’t tell her. She would never understand. But it was the only way to keep us from losing the house. I hope she can forgive me someday.”
My heart shattered. All those years of resentment, all those bitter words I had thrown at her — they were based on a lie. She had been protecting me, even if it meant becoming the villain in my eyes.
I sat there for hours, crying, clutching the diary to my chest. I had spent so much time hating her, and now it was too late to apologize, too late to tell her I finally understood.
In that moment, I promised to honor her memory. I would forgive her, as she had always hoped I would, and let go of the bitterness that had poisoned our relationship. I realized how much she loved me, in her own flawed way, and I regretted every harsh word and every moment of anger.
My mother’s diary changed my perspective on my whole life. It taught me the importance of understanding and compassion, and the painful cost of assumptions. It was a lesson I wished I had learned sooner, but one I would carry with me forever.
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