Right after the funeral of our 15-year-old daughter, my husband insisted that I get rid
Under the bed, tucked away in the shadows, lay a small box, dusty and nearly forgotten. My hands trembled as I reached for it, heart pounding, each beat echoing with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The box was wrapped in a bright fabric I recognized immediately—an old scarf I had given her on her last birthday. My breath hitched as I carefully lifted it from its hiding spot, a sense of both dread and curiosity gripping me.
I sank to the floor, holding the box close to my chest, afraid to open it. A thousand questions raced through my mind: What secrets had my daughter hidden from us? Why hadn’t she shared this while she was alive? I felt the weight of her absence pressing down on me.
Finally, I untied the scarf and opened the box. Inside were letters, a diary, and several small keepsakes. The letters were addressed to me, written in her familiar, looping handwriting. With shaking hands, I unfolded the first one.
“Dear Mom,” it began, “I know you’re probably very confused right now, and I’m sorry for keeping this from you. I was scared and didn’t know how to tell you about everything. But I need you to know that I love you, and everything I did was to protect you.”
Protect me? My chest tightened as I read her words. What had she been protecting us from? Each letter peeled back a layer of her hidden life—stories of bullying at school, moments of fear and isolation, and her attempts to shield us from the pain she carried alone. Tears blurred my vision as I realized the depth of her silent struggle.