Mary's Confession

Dear Mom,

I know this is a little late, you being dead and all, but there’s something I want to get off my chest before they put you in the ground and I never see you again. Maybe they’ll even let me put this letter in your coffin, who knows?

Do you remember the mystery of the Christmas Disaster of 2015? We had just come back from the Orson Family Christmas Shopping Extravaganza, energized and successful, with about twice as much loot as we needed to buy. But as we opened the door, it was like we all deflated, energy draining out, and the merry carolers and happy gossips suddenly went quiet. It looked as though the house had been completely turned inside out during the brief six hours of our annual event. I didn’t even have to feign my horror at the overturned Christmas tree and shattered handmade ornaments, the carefully wrapped presents torn apart and scattered around the room, the shredded wreaths and chewed up stockings. Some of the stuff had been family heirlooms, handed down to each new branch of the Orson tree. All of it was utterly destroyed.

We were devastated. The kids were inconsolable and the adults were almost as bad. I think Grandma Charlie even fainted. The family dissolved into chaos, blaming cousins and defending against siblings, and I knew it was only a matter of time before everyone found out my guilt and I was disowned. I ran off to the kids’ bedroom and cried for a long time before I was brave enough to return to the mess and help clean up. You see, I was the one who had offered the house to my best friend Sandy to keep her new puppy in for a few hours until she could surprise her little sister with it. In exchange, I didn’t fail my Algebra exam. The dog was gone by the time we came back, but the evidence wasn’t, and I was certain the truth would be immediately obvious to anyone who helped clean up. I’m fairly sure I was visibly shaking as I swept up the remnants of broken family ornaments, rewrapped presents, and rehung decorations that the more artistic cousins had salvaged.

As we all worked together to save Christmas, the cheery atmosphere returned. The aunts returned to their gossip, the uncles entertained with their wild stories, some not fit for young ears, but all led to uproarious laughter nonetheless. The grandmas fussed and pestered and the children whined and giggled. Everything was back to normal, except for me. Someone even commented on how pale I looked and had me sit out on the cleaning for a bit with a mug of hot cocoa. I think you knew something was up when I was unnaturally quiet for the rest of the day. I offered my services in cooking and dishes and sweeping and repairing, and everything anyone would let me help with, even though I normally hate housework, and would always assign myself “babysitting” to spend a few hours making cooing noises at the babies or chase squealing toddlers around. But I couldn’t just hide how I felt, and how I felt was extremely guilty. I did everything I possibly could to make it right, short of confessing and making everyone hate me for the rest of my life. If they even let me live that long.

I was so paranoid that someone would figure out it was all my fault and I would be disowned right there at the dinner table; I couldn’t eat anything, or enjoy anything at all that Christmas. Not my favorite pie that Grandma Charlie helped me make, not the new phone I had begged and pleaded for the last 6 months, not even the annual Orson Family Christmas Game Night, indisputably the best part of all family get-togethers. I couldn’t even play a single game, my stomach was hurting so badly. I felt everyone’s eyes boring into me the whole time, especially yours, Mom. I’m such a bad liar, I was terrified everyone could see right through me. But nothing ever happened. I never got in trouble. Not even my obvious physical reaction to the guilt set off any alarm bells. Everyone just assumed I’d caught a cold, and I was taken care of with all the love and kisses they could muster, which only added to my anguish.

The closest I ever got to detection was when you came into my room the day after everyone went home and told me that no matter what, I could come to you with anything and you wouldn’t get mad. I think maybe you knew already, but at the time I was so ashamed, I convinced myself that you had no idea and you were just saying that because moms say that all the time. Please understand, Mom, I didn’t mean to lie to you. I just wanted you to be proud of me, not disappointed in me. I loved you more than anyone in the whole world, except maybe Dad, and it would have destroyed me to have you disappointed in me, especially since I was already so disappointed in myself.

I wished I had told you then. I wish I had confessed it all to you, truth and tears rushing out of me like water from a broken dam, asking silently or not silently, “Do you still love me?” And you would have held me and rocked me and kissed my head and told me you would always love me, no matter what, that there was nothing I could ever do to make you stop loving me.

But that never happened, because I was too afraid to tell you. I was too afraid that even if you didn’t hate me, that even if you didn’t tell the family and even if I didn’t get kicked out, you would never love me the same way again, and that whenever you would look at me from then on, all you would see would be shattered ornaments. Memories you could never get back. Stories of your childhood, times with Grandpa making ornaments or starting traditions, things that were dear to you, gone forever, all because of me. I was so terrified that I would see an accusation in your eyes that I didn’t trust you to love me. I thought it was better to keep my guilt for the rest of my life than to risk having it reflected back at me in the eyes of someone I loved.

Such was my fear of rejection that I passed up the chance to say “It was my fault and I’m sorry,” and receive an “I forgive you and still love you.” And that is one of my deepest regrets, Mom. That I lied to you for years because I didn’t trust your love to be big enough to cover my failures.

So I guess I’m saying it now. It was all my fault and I’m so sorry, for everything. Please don’t be mad at me, Mom. I love you.

Your Mary