To the Wounds That Shaped Us

I remember the first day I came to you. The day you first saw me. On the TV, there was a scene from the show Bittersoet, where a girl was mourning the loss of her brother. I was quietly crying.

Deep inside, a voice kept asking, “Does she think I’m exaggerating?” Yet it had only been 16 days since my father passed away. In his last days, my father had mentioned you, saying, “She will help you.” And then, there you were, the person he meant—standing before me when I was drowning in pain, having lost a part of my life.

I had never seen you before or even heard of you. Until I came to that city, I had no idea you existed. Your name was never spoken in my family—it was forbidden.

My mother would only whisper stories about you: how, when you became a widow at 16, you wanted to return home, but your family refused, saying, “You belong to the house you married into.”

Yet, you survived. You fought and endured a life shaped by pain. And one day, you appeared to change my fate. For that, I am forever grateful.

You always welcomed me, taking me in when my wounds were still raw. There were 65 years between us, but when we talked, I never felt the gap. You listened to me, and then you’d tell your stories—how you got married, how you were loved, how you loved someone else, and how you lost your child.

Putting the pain of loss into words is hard, but you managed to express it every time. You’d fall asleep at night, whispering the name of your child who once said, “I’m leaving,” and never returned. I used to feel scared sometimes, but I never told you in the morning. I didn’t want to remind you of your pain or add to it. It hurt me deeply.

You taught me empathy. I could feel that your pain was as fresh as mine. You showed me that those who leave us always leave a void that can never be filled. That’s when I realized I would always carry this incompleteness, but you would heal me. I was grateful for your presence.

I’d climb that hill with excitement to see you, and when you’d hug me with your open arms, I could finally breathe. You reminded me of my mother. You were the ache in my heart but also a soothing presence, like flowers that comfort. Your home was warm, and you cooked the most wonderful meals.

I regret so much. I realized how much I loved you more with each passing day, but I don’t know if my words of gratitude were ever enough. I loved you so much.

You showed me what family is. You helped me grow. Thank you for everything. You’d always ask, “Why don’t you call?” And one day, when I finally did, it was too late. You were gone. Your funeral had already passed. No one told me. I’m sorry. I didn’t call… I didn’t reach out. But most of all, I was so angry.

Angry with myself. Self-blame had almost become second nature to me. You know that. You always told me not to do that, that there are things we can't control.

What else was I supposed to do but blame myself? Yes, I wasn’t your daughter, not even a relative, just someone you knew. Why would they think to call me?

I cried. The pain burned inside me, and I kept saying to myself, “I didn’t deserve you.”

One of your words echoes in my ears: “As stories are told, memories are strung together like beads on a prayer chain.” So I write, and the memories come flooding back, and I hear your voice.

Thank you for loving me, for seeing me as your own daughter, for sharing in my pain. Without you, I couldn’t have studied, couldn’t have grown. I remember how lonely you felt sometimes and how you longed for someone to help you.

I have two wounds in my life: one is my father, and the other is you. And you were the witness to my first wound. I wonder, do you remember me? Because I can never forget you.

I wish I could thank you one last time, to tell you just how much you meant to me, how deeply grateful I am for every moment you gave me. I know it’s too late now, but the love and wisdom you left behind are etched into my heart forever.

Let this letter be my cry into the silence, my way of reaching out to you across the distance that separates us. I promise, your name will not fade; I will carry your memory with me always and share your story with those who need to hear it.

I love you more than words can ever convey. I’m so grateful that you existed, that you were a part of my life, even for a fleeting "once upon a time."

Thank you, endlessly, for the love you gave and the life you lived.