{"id":1912,"date":"2024-12-06T09:07:36","date_gmt":"2024-12-06T09:07:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/?p=1912"},"modified":"2024-12-06T09:07:38","modified_gmt":"2024-12-06T09:07:38","slug":"my-mom-forbade-me-from-opening-her-closet-after-she-passed-i-opened-it-and-now-im-at-a-crossroads","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/archives\/1912","title":{"rendered":"My Mom Forbade Me from Opening Her Closet \u2013 After She Passed, I Opened It, and Now I\u2019m at a Crossroads"},"content":{"rendered":"
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I used to think my mother was magic. Not in the fairy-tale sense, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible way she moved through life \u2014 always graceful, always knowing.\n

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\"A\n\n

A thoughtful woman\n\n\n

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Her name was Portia, and she had a laugh like chimes in the wind. But even as a child, I knew there were parts of her I wasn\u2019t allowed to touch. One thing my mom kept private and stood out to me most was the closet in her bedroom.\n\n

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Her voice still echoed in my head: \u201cNever go in there, Miranda.\u201d Not a suggestion. A rule.\n\n

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And when I asked why \u2014 because what child wouldn\u2019t? \u2014 she\u2019d give me the same response every time, her voice firm. \u201cThat\u2019s grown-up stuff. You\u2019ll understand one day.\u201d\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman speaking to her daughter\n\n\n

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But I never did. At least, not until after she was gone.\n\n

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The house felt cavernous when I arrived. I was here to pack it up, and every room was steeped in memories. My father, Robert, sat on the living room couch, flipping through a photo album with the same vacant expression he\u2019d worn since the funeral.\n\n

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\u201cShe was good at keeping things,\u201d he muttered, mostly to himself.\n\n

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I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A man looking at a photo album\n\n\n

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The truth was, I hated being here. I hated how her absence seeped into every corner, and how the closet in her bedroom stood like a ghost in my periphery.\n\n

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\u201cShe wouldn\u2019t want you fussing so much, you know,\u201d Dad added, his voice a hollow echo. \u201cJust pack it all up, nice and neat.\u201d\n\n

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\u201cI know,\u201d I said quietly.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman packing items into a box\n\n\n

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Rain pattered against the windows as I finally stood in front of the bedroom closet. I\u2019d avoided this moment all week, and it had been easier than I thought \u2014 packing up the kitchen, the bathroom, even her bookshelves.\n\n

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But this door\u2026 this was different.\n\n

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Her bedroom had been a world unto itself when I was little. It smelled like her favorite rosewater lotion, the light always soft and golden. As I stood there now, it felt foreign, almost alien, like I was trespassing.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A closet in a bedroom\n\n\n

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The jewelry box sat on her dresser, the closet key gleaming like it had been waiting for me. My fingers brushed it hesitantly, the cool metal sending a shiver up my arm.\n\n

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\u201cCome on, Miranda,\u201d I whispered to myself. \u201cIt\u2019s just a closet.\u201d\n\n

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It wasn\u2019t.\n\n

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The key slid in with an almost ceremonial click.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A key in a door\n\n\n

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The handle creaked under my grip, and when the door swung open, it was like stepping into a time capsule. Her dresses she\u2019d arranged by color. The faint smell of lavender sachets. The boxes of shoes she\u2019d stacked so neatly they could\u2019ve been on display.\n\n

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At first, it was ordinary. Then I saw a heavy leather case shoved into the far corner, hidden behind a long coat. My breath caught.\n\n

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\u201cWhat are you?\u201d I murmured, crouching down.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A leather bundle in a closet\n\n\n

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The case thudded against the bed when I set it down. My hands shook as I unzipped it. Inside, a stack of envelopes stared back at me, bound with twine and aged to a soft beige. The handwriting was unfamiliar, slanted, deliberate \u2014 and each letter ended with the same name.\n\n

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Will.\n\n

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I knew that name. I tugged open the nightstand drawer and rifled through it until I found what I was looking for.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A nightstand\n\n\n

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I gripped the old photo of a handsome man in his twenties between my fingers. The name \u201cWill\u201d was written on the back. I\u2019d spotted it among her things once when I was little and asked about him.\n\n

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\u201cJust an old friend,\u201d Mom had said, quickly tucking it back in the drawer.\n\n

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I\u2019d believed her then, but now\u2026 I looked at the letters and my stomach churned. I couldn\u2019t help but feel I\u2019d stumbled upon a secret.\n\n

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My fingers shook as I unfolded the first letter and started reading.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman holding letters\n\n\n

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My dearest Portia,\n\n

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I still can\u2019t believe it! I have a daughter. I can\u2019t stop imagining what she looks like, and who she\u2019ll grow up to be. Please, Portia, let me meet Miranda. I deserve to know her.\n\n

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I read another. Then another. They painted a picture of a man I\u2019d never met \u2014 a man who was my biological father. Will. His disbelief bled through the pages, each letter revealing more of the pain my mother had caused him and, indirectly, me.\n\n

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In one letter, he pleaded:\u00a0\u201cPlease don\u2019t deny me the right to know my daughter. I don\u2019t want to disrupt your life, but she\u2019s part of me too. Doesn\u2019t she deserve that?\u201d\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman reading a letter\n\n\n

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But he was met with rejection. Judging by his responses, my mother had argued that introducing him into my life would tear apart the family she had carefully built.\n\n

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My father had no idea he wasn\u2019t my biological father, and my mother had been adamant that the truth would devastate him. Over and over, she promised Will she\u2019d tell me someday, \u201cwhen the time is right.\u201d\n\n

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A vague, moving target that never seemed to come.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman holding letters\n\n\n

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In another letter, written years later, Will\u2019s tone shifted, frustration mingling with desperation:\u00a0\u201cYou can\u2019t keep me waiting forever, Portia. I\u2019m running out of patience and time. I\u2019ve thought about just showing up one day \u2014 what would you do then? Slam the door in my face?\u201d\n\n

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But the bravado didn\u2019t last.\n\n

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In the very next letter, written in shakier handwriting, he apologized for his earlier words, his heartbreak pouring out on the page.\n\n

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\"Old\n\n

Old letters\n\n\n

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I don\u2019t want to lose even the slim chance of seeing her someday. I can\u2019t risk it. But I\u2019m begging you, please let me in. And no, I can\u2019t pay the child support arrears you threatened me with \u2014 I wish I could. But I\u2019ll wait as long as I have to for you to tell her about me.\n\n

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Each word painted my mother as a scared woman, controlling, maybe even selfish. She\u2019d kept Will away not because she hated him, but because she\u2019d been too afraid to let him in.\n\n

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I looked at the stack of letters, my hands trembling. These weren\u2019t just words on paper. They were shards of my identity, sharp and cutting, piecing together a history I\u2019d never known.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A stack of letters\n\n\n

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And Will, this man who\u2019d written hundreds of words trying to reach me, had been waiting for years, hoping, while I\u2019d lived blissfully unaware.\n\n

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At the bottom of the case, the final two envelopes stared back at me. I swallowed hard, knowing they held the final pieces of the truth. I couldn\u2019t unsee any of it now.\n\n

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The first was from Will. Dated months before Mom\u2019s death, it was heartbreak in ink.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman looking at old letters\n\n\n

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Miranda,\n\n

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I don\u2019t know if you\u2019ll ever read this. But if you do, know that I\u2019ve waited my whole life to meet you. If you ever want to find me, I\u2019m here. Always.\n\n

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There was an address written at the bottom. The second was from Mom. Her handwriting was shaky, her words an apology wrapped in a confession.\n\n

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I should have told you. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now how selfish that was. I hope one day you\u2019ll forgive me.\n\n

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I couldn\u2019t breathe. The woman I\u2019d idolized had built her life on a lie.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A heartbroken woman\n\n\n

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I stayed up all night rereading the letters. Part of me wanted to scream at her, to demand answers she could never give. Another part wanted to shred the letters and pretend I\u2019d never found them.\n\n

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But the truth was out now, and there was no unknowing it.\n\n

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It took me weeks to decide. Even then, I wasn\u2019t sure I\u2019d made the right choice when I found myself standing outside Will\u2019s house.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A house\n\n\n

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He opened the door, his eyes widening as if he were staring at a ghost.\n\n

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\u201cMiranda?\u201d His voice cracked, and I nodded.\n\n

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For a moment, we just stood there uncertainly. Then he stepped aside, motioning for me to come in.\n\n

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The house smelled faintly of wood polish and old books. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the walls.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A fire in a fireplace\n\n\n

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\u201cYou look so much like her,\u201d he said finally, his voice thick with emotion.\n\n

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\u201cI\u2019ve been told.\u201d I tried to smile, but it felt forced.\n\n

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He offered me tea, but neither of us touched it. Instead, we talked. He told me stories I\u2019d never heard before, remarked on the way she\u2019d laughed when she thought no one was listening, and the songs she used to hum.\n\n

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And then he told me about the day he found out about me.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A man talking to a woman\n\n\n

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\u201cI\u2019d been working overseas and didn\u2019t get her letter until it was too late. She\u2019d married by then and was afraid of what it would do to her husband\u2026 your dad,\u201d he said, his hands gripping the mug so tightly his knuckles went white. \u201cI didn\u2019t agree, but\u2026 I understood.\u201d\n\n

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The man who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike, who cried at my high school graduation. He was my dad. And yet, sitting across from Will, I couldn\u2019t deny the connection I felt.\n\n

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When I left Will\u2019s home, I felt a heavy burden settle over my shoulders.\n\n

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\"A\n\n

A woman driving her car\n\n\n

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I couldn\u2019t bring myself to tell Dad, not yet. Maybe never. So I tucked the letters away for safekeeping.\n\n

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Was I making the same mistake as Mom? Or was I sparing him a truth that would only bring pain? I didn\u2019t know. All I knew was that life had shifted, leaving me somewhere in between.\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I used to think my mother was magic. Not in the fairy-tale sense, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible way she moved through life \u2014 always graceful, always knowing. A thoughtful woman Her name was Portia, and she had a laugh like chimes in the wind. But even as a child, I knew there were […]\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":1913,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1912","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1912"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1914,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1912\/revisions\/1914"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1913"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1912"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1912"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/momentsunfolded.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1912"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}