When my mom passed away, I felt utterly broken. To cope, I wrote a letter to her, sealing my deepest feelings and regrets inside her casket. I thought that was the final act of closure, but five years later, I received a letter that made me question whether the dead can really reach out from beyond.
I was 25 when my mom, Polly, died. The pain was unbearable, like a part of me had been violently torn away. People kept offering clichés like “she’s in a better place” or “time heals all wounds,” but none of that helped. Losing my mom felt like an open wound that wouldn’t heal.
At her funeral, people passed by her casket, leaving flowers and little tokens, and I couldn’t help but wonder if any of it mattered. When the crowd finally thinned, I took out the letter I’d written the night before. It was a letter I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud.
The paper trembled in my hands as I unfolded it, still stained with tears. I had poured everything I felt into it, all the regrets, all the words I never had the chance to say.
“Mom, I don’t know how to live without you,” was the first line. I signed it, “Your daughter, forever,” and slipped it gently into her hands. No one saw me do it. It was just between me and her, the final goodbye.
Five years went by slowly. I moved to Oak Ridge, got a job in marketing, and even dated a guy named Marcus. People said I was “doing better,” but the truth was, the hole my mom left in my life was still there. I just learned how to live around it. That letter, though, remained a private piece of my grief.
Then one day, everything changed. I grabbed my mail as usual and saw a plain white envelope with no return address. My name was written in handwriting I recognized, and my heart skipped a beat.
Inside was a letter, and the words leapt off the page: “Mom, I don’t know how to live without you.” Those were my words from five years ago.
I froze, stunned, and kept reading. The letter seemed to respond to everything I’d felt back then—my grief, my loss, urging me to keep going and reminding me that I was loved. But then, at the end, it said something I couldn’t make sense of: “I worry about you and your father. Please, think of him.”
My mind raced. My parents had divorced when I was 18, after Dad had an affair. Mom had kicked him out and never looked back. They barely spoke after that. So why would my dead mother be concerned about the man who had broken her heart? And more importantly, was this really her, or was someone playing a sick game?
Then, a week later, another letter arrived. It said, “Your father needs you, Iris. Call him.”
Three days after that, I received a third letter: “This is the last one. Please, reach out to him.”
I hadn’t spoken to my dad in five years, not since Mom’s funeral. He’d never called, never sent a birthday card, nothing. But now, these mysterious letters were pushing me toward him.
Then my phone rang.
“Iris, it’s your dad,” came the gruff voice on the other end.
“I’ve been dreaming about your mom,” he said. “She wants us to reconnect. Can we meet for coffee?”
I almost hung up, but curiosity got the best of me.
“Fine,” I said, “Mabel’s Diner on Fifth Street. Tomorrow at two.”
When I walked into the diner the next day, I hardly recognized him. Dad had aged a lot in five years. His hair was completely gray, and his shoulders slumped as if weighed down by some invisible burden. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
“You look good, Iris,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied, studying him, trying to see the man I once knew.
We sat down and ordered coffee. He began apologizing, talking about how he’d messed up with Mom, and how he wanted to be more present in my life. It felt like he was finally realizing the consequences of his actions.
“I know I wasn’t there for you after your mom passed. But I want to try now. We could have dinner once a week, catch up on everything I missed,” he said, looking at me with what seemed like genuine sincerity.
I wanted to believe him. Maybe people could change. Maybe grief had taught him something. But then he leaned in, looking around as if about to tell me a secret.
“I don’t want to bring this up, but I need your help. I’m in a tight spot with a loan. $15,000 would get me out of this mess.”
Suddenly, all the warmth in the room drained away. After five years of no contact, he was asking for money.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lied, forcing a smile that felt like it was made of glass.
We continued to meet for dinner, and slowly I started to see through the façade. I caught him watching me with affection, like the money was just part of the plan. Six months later, he invited me to his apartment.
When he went out to the store, I snooped around. In his desk, I found overdue bills, piles of unpaid notices, and in the bottom drawer of an old desk, my letter. The very same letter I’d placed in Mom’s casket.
I was speechless as I spread it out on the table. It was yellowed and faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable—mine.
I confronted him when he came back. “You STOLE it from her casket. You used my grief to manipulate me into giving you money.”
His face turned pale, and his hands shook. “I thought maybe if I knew what you wrote, I could get close to you. But when things got bad with the money, I thought I could use it to get you to help me.”
I couldn’t believe it. He admitted to stealing my letter and manipulating me for money.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “I wanted to be your father again. Not just someone who needed something from you.”
I stared at him for a long time, unable to decide if this was the man I used to know or just a better liar. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you again,” I said, folding the letter and putting it in my purse.
Two weeks later, he left a voicemail, apologizing again, saying he understood if I never forgave him, but hoped I’d give him another chance.
I think about those months we spent together, how he’d light up when I laughed, or how he’d remember my coffee order. Maybe he really did want to reconnect. But maybe he’s just a better actor than I ever gave him credit for.
I still have the letter. Some nights, I take it out and read it, remembering the pain I felt when I lost Mom. But I also remember how I learned to live without her.
Now I’m wondering if I can learn to live with my father. Or if some wounds are too deep to heal.
He used my love for Mom against me. But he also showed up for six months, even when there was nothing for him. I’m torn, wondering if I can forgive him or if I’m just setting myself up for more heartbreak.
So, what would you do? Would you give him a third chance, or would you walk away and never look back?