I had always assumed my mother and I were each other’s whole world—until her will told a different story. And it wasn’t until I uncovered a letter hidden in her bedroom that the truth slowly began to unravel.
I loved my mother fiercely. But I never had a father.
As a child, when Father’s Day rolled around, I felt out of place.
My mother, Margaret, would say, “It’s always been you and me, Claire. That’s more than enough.”
I accepted that. Or at least I convinced myself I did.
The hard part was that she always seemed emotionally out of reach. She provided for me and made sure I lacked nothing materially. Yet she never wrapped me in her arms, and when I cried, she’d gently tap my shoulder instead of holding me close.
When I was seven, I used to linger in her doorway at night.
“Mom?” I’d ask softly.
“Yes?”
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”
She would reply, “You’re a big girl, Claire. You’ll be fine in your own room.”
I’d nod and walk away, pretending it didn’t hurt.
She almost never attended my school performances. Later, she’d explain it away as a migraine. We never sat down for long, heartfelt talks about life or boys over cups of tea. But when I graduated from college, she showed up.
After the ceremony, I hugged her. She stiffened slightly. “I’m proud of you.”
It felt practiced.
