The Notes She Never Meant Me to See

I didn’t sleep well after finding the notebook.

Not because it scared me, but because every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s handwriting. I kept hearing her voice saying things I wish she’d said out loud while she was alive.

By morning, I knew I was going back into that room.

I brought coffee with me, as if offering it to the dust would make the moment feel normal. The door was still open from the night before. Somehow it felt less like an accident today and more like a decision.

The sweater was still draped over the trunk.

The air still held that faint, paper-sweet smell.

The notebook lay where I left it.

But something else had shifted.

A box I hadn’t noticed yesterday flattened, taped badly, and slightly open sat by the far wall. I pulled it closer, half expecting nothing more than old receipts or holiday cards.

Instead, I found notes.

Dozens.

Maybe a hundred.

Loose slips of paper torn corners, grocery lists with sentences scribbled sideways, napkins with ink bleeding through, sticky notes stuck to each other like they were huddling for warmth.

All of them in her handwriting.

All of them addressed to no one.

I picked one up at random.

She pretends she’s strong, but I know the look she gets when she feels like she’s failing. I hope she remembers she doesn’t have to be brave all the time.

My chest tightened.

The next note was different lighter.

Buy more yeast. She keeps forgetting she hates homemade bread.

I laughed under my breath. I did hate homemade bread. It was dense and heavy and tasted like disappointment, but she always made it when she was anxious.

I kept digging.

She doesn’t know I heard her crying that night. I didn’t go in. I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. But I sat outside the door until she fell asleep.

My throat closed around a lump I wasn’t ready for.

I lifted another slip.

Ask her about Lily. Don’t let her forget.

Lily.

The name meant nothing to me, like a fragment overheard from someone else’s life. I placed the note beside me carefully, as if it might crumble.

Another note:

If she finds these someday, I hope she understands that I noticed more than she thought.

I had to stop reading for a moment. The room felt smaller. My heartbeat felt louder. I could almost imagine her sitting cross-legged on this floor years ago, writing whatever she couldn’t say aloud.

It was comforting.

And painful.

And confusing.

At the bottom of the box, I found a folded sheet larger, smoother, wand ritten later than the others. The ink looked heavier.

A date was written at the top.

Two weeks before she died.

Circled in red.

Under it, she had scribbled one single line:

Don’t forget to tell them.

Tell who?

Tell them what?

My fingers trembled slightly as I refolded the page.

Behind me, something caught the light a faint glint near the edge of the room. I turned and saw it:

A thin, dark notebook wedged beneath the trunk.

Not my mother’s handwriting this time.

Not addressed to me.

And not dusty like everything else.

Someone had touched it recently.

I pulled it free, heart stuttering.

The cover was blank.

No name.

No clue.

I slid my thumb along the edge

There was a page sticking out.

A torn page.

A page written by someone who was not my mother.

I didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Some part of me knew:

Whatever was inside this notebook

was going to change what I thought I knew about this house.

And about her.

To be continued…