The Other Side
The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the doorknob, I felt afraid of what I might find on the other side.
Not because I expected danger.
Because I expected answers.
The house was silent except for the old clock in the hallway marking each second with patient certainty.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
For twenty years, the room had remained untouched.
My mother’s room.
After her funeral, everyone had agreed it was best to leave it alone for a while. A while became months. Months became years. Then life happened, as it always does, and the closed door simply became part of the house.
Part of the landscape.
Part of the grief.
Until now.
The lawyer’s letter had arrived three days earlier.
A box belonging to your mother may contain documents relevant to your family history.
Family history.
A phrase capable of opening wounds and mysteries in equal measure.
My fingers tightened around the brass doorknob.
What if I found proof she had lied?
What if I discovered she had been unhappy?
What if the version of her I carried inside me wasn’t the whole truth?
The door opened with a soft creak.
Dust floated through the afternoon light.
The room smelled faintly of lavender.
Nothing looked different.
The books remained on the shelves. Her reading glasses still rested beside the bed. A cardigan hung over the chair exactly as though she had stepped out for a moment and intended to return.
The box sat waiting beneath the window.
My heart pounded as I lifted the lid.
Inside were letters.
Dozens of them.
Not hidden lovers.
Not dark secrets.
Not scandals.
Letters addressed to me.
One for every birthday she knew she would miss.
One for my wedding anniversary.
One for difficult days.
One simply marked:
When you doubt that you were loved.
Tears blurred the words before I could read them.
All those years I had feared what waited behind the door.
And all that time, it had been love.
Patiently waiting to be found.
Fandango’s Story Starter #252
Fandango’s Starter#252
This week’s Story Starter teaser is:
The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the doorknob, I felt afraid of what I might find on the other side.
With love, coffee, poetry, and stardust,
— Maggie The Afterlove Voice 💫
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