My Mother’s Journal
About forty days after my mom passed, I was cleaning out her closet. I wasn’t looking for anything specific—maybe a scent, a piece of jewelry, something to hold onto. But instead, I found an old leather-bound journal, worn and cracked at the edges, tucked away in a dusty box.
The cover read, in faded gold letters:
“My Only Refuge.”
I opened it, and there it was—my mom’s handwriting. Elegant, flowing, and familiar.
March 15, 1992
I saw him again today. His voice still has that gentle tone I remember. I wanted to tell him I think about him every night, even though I smile for my husband during the day. I miss him in a way that burns deep.
I froze.
Who was “him”?
Page after page, my quiet, devoted mom poured out her heart about a man named David. She’d loved him before she married my dad. Loved him fiercely, quietly, with a passion she hid from the world.
Her family had other plans—my dad was “the right match.” David wasn’t. He was kind but working-class, and she was expected to marry well.
June 2, 1994
I smiled on my wedding day. The dress was white. The pictures were perfect. But inside, I was somewhere else—standing alone in the rain, watching him walk away.
For years, she and David met in secret. In a tiny coffee shop downtown. Brief conversations, stolen moments, lingering glances.
December 12, 1998
He wanted us to run away—to leave everything behind and start fresh somewhere new, maybe by the coast. I almost said yes.
But then he saw the photos of the kids…
And he let me go.
I closed the journal, my hands trembling.
This was a side of my mom I never knew. The woman who never raised her voice, who tucked me in every night, who made sure I had breakfast and homework done—she was also someone who had loved fiercely, and sacrificed everything.
The last entry held an address and a name:
David Reynolds — The Bluebird Café — Cedar Falls.
The next morning, I bought a ticket.
The café was small, with chipped paint and faded curtains. Inside sat a man in his sixties, reading a newspaper with quiet patience.
I approached him, heart pounding.
“Excuse me… are you David Reynolds?”
He looked up. His eyes met mine, soft and warm.
“You look just like her.”
“I’m her daughter,” I said. “She died last month.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, moisture glistening.
“I always knew this day would come. I waited, hoping maybe she’d send you.”
“She never forgot you,” I said softly.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. Inside was a silver locket.
“I was going to give her this on the day we planned to run away. She never came. So I kept it… for her. Or for you.”
Tears fell down my cheeks. Standing there, across from a stranger who somehow knew more about my mother’s secret heart than I ever did.
But he wasn’t a stranger. He was part of her. And now, part of me.
I went home that night wearing the locket.
My mother wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She loved, she hurt, and she stayed—for me.
And finally, I saw her.
Not just as my mom.
But as a woman.
