Years passed, and I distanced myself from Mom.

It broke my heart. My years of animosity and the hurtful things I spoke to her were founded on falsehoods. She had been there by me the whole time, shielding me from harm, even if it made her seem bad to me.

I held the journal close to my chest while I sobbed for hours. It was too late to apologize or tell her I understood; I had hated her for so long.

I made a solemn vow then and there to carry on her legacy. Let go of the resentment that had harmed our relationship; I would forgive her, just as she had always wished for. I felt bad about every angry phrase and hard moment because I knew she loved me, imperfectly.

Reading my mother’s diaries altered my view of my whole existence. The value of empathy and comprehension, as well as the high price of assumptions, were lessons I took away from it. I would always remember the lesson, even if I wish I had known it sooner.