Diary of A Lost Mother

‘My Darling Ambrose,

Is that still your name?

I hope so. To me, you will always be Ambrose…even if you aren’t mine anymore.

Please understand, we’ve never truly been apart. I have kept a piece of my heart just for you, where I will treasure you always.

I’d say it wasn’t easy, but truthfully it was – at least in some ways.

I loved you, oh how I loved you; but that’s exactly what made it easier. I wanted you to have the world, and this was the only way to give it to you.

Now, if it’s alright, I’d like to share mine with you.

I’m not as young as I used to be – at least not on the outside.

My friends say I’ll never slow down; I’ll just fade with the setting sun.

I hope so – life is too short for ‘slow’.

But I don’t want to fade. I want to leave my mark and I want you to know me.

Maybe that’s selfish? I’m ok with it.’

“Est-ce-qu' un bon livre?”

Jolted back to reality, I looked up at the amused woman as she refilled my coffee.

I returned her smile, “Le meilleur - the best.”

Her smile turned wry, “He speaks. And he’s English. A week and that’s all we know! Marie would know the name of your mother by now.”

I followed her gaze to the older woman, buzzing around chatting to customers. Whether regular or new, she treated them like old friends.

“Julia.” I responded, holding the pages fiercely as though I could hug my birth mother’s spirit.

She eyed the little black notebook, “That’s what you read every day? Her…”, pausing, she searched for the word, “diary?”

“Do you want to see it?”

The woman reeled back, shocked, shaking her head “No, no. C’est privé. I shouldn’t be so curious like Marie.”

I laughed, “It’s ok. Look.” I lifted one of the pages, pointing to a line in the diary:

‘Like life, stories are written to be shared.’

She frowned for a moment before taking a seat, “D’accord. If it is what Julia wants, I will hear her story.”

We sat there for hours as the afternoon light drew away the day’s heat, leaving a chill in its place. I told her my mother’s story, barely glancing at the page; words long since engraved in my mind.

Julia’s life, traversed continents, living wild and brazen, though shorter than many. A journey that took her everywhere from Morocco to Monte Carlo, and years later, led me to do the same. She loved and she marvelled, her words oozing wit and wonder.

We laughed at her misguided romances and antics, often leaving her in the strangest of circumstances. Running barefoot from forested howls in Canada, to name but one. Though not much beats chasing thieving monkeys in Gibraltar.

‘Never trust a person or a monkey – no matter how sweet they appear. For they’ll drop from the skies and steal your shoes before you can even recall your own name. For the record, monkeys, it’s Julia. And I really liked my shoes!’

We shuddered at her tales of blizzards and stormy glaciers, content to admire from afar, and we humbled in her most open and vulnerable moments. Though surrounded by friends she loved, and new ones made upon travels, there was a sense of loneliness. It was as though her truest companion was the notebook, she carried with her. I saddened at the thought that I could have been beside her.

Eventually, we reached a crossroad, where mine and Julia’s lives intersected once again. I told her of the bittersweet day I learned of my birth mother and her passing. Having chosen to live most of her life in this city of love and lights, it wasn’t so surprising that her last act was to bring me here.

In the Banque Nationale de Paris, Julia left me my second and final gift, a safety deposit box. Inside, she hid away $20,000 of savings and the notebook in my hand. Slipped inside the cover, Julia left a note instructing me to:

'Take the book as your guide and the money as your ticket. Life is waiting, so share your story and make it count! P.s. I expect a full book by the time we meet again.’

“So, what brings you back to Paris?”

“I’ll tell you, but first you have to tell me your name.” I smirked mirthfully, not willing to leave before I found out.

She laughed, shaking her head, “Story first.”

Falling prey to the dance and charms of the beautiful woman, I acquiesced.

I read her my favourite entry; one of yearning and awe. Perhaps the most unique and personal moment that Julia shared with me.

‘Hugo wrote of the freedom of architecture and a love that was held too tight. When I stand beneath the vaulted ceilings and rose windows of Notre Dame, I finally understand it. The freedom of expression, an openness to the world.’

As I read the last line, she took my hand, exhaling a whisper “That’s beautiful.”

“I made a pact to visit Notre Dame on the anniversary of her death. So, I went this morning. I return home tomorrow.”

She nodded, deep in thought.

A moment passed and I squeezed her hand, “Your turn.”

A mischievous look transformed her, and she withdrew from my hold, “Julia has shared her stories with me, and so, I will tell her instead.” Sliding the notebook across the table, she wrote her name on a random page, slamming it shut.

I frowned playfully, “Traitor.”

Moments later, Marie came over to chat with us, not at all bothered about losing her waitress. We continued in our settled revelry, the woman and I still strangers by name, until eventually it was time to go.

Before I could leave, she captured me once again with a question – not that I minded.

She wondered, if I had to choose, would I have picked the money or the book?

I smiled, slow and easy, and simply thanked her before leaving.

The next day, I returned and left a package for the woman I now knew as Aurelie. Inside, she would find her answer, along with a brand-new notebook to match.

Within, I repeated Julia’s words:

I expect a full book by the time we meet again.

Love,

Ambrose

By the time she found this note, I would be on the train to London, $20,000 lighter.

6 years later…

Each year that passed, I revisited the café on my way to Notre Dame, stopping by to visit Marie. Aurelie left not long after we met, leaving me at a loss to find her.

Until one day, she found me.

Shading from the noon sun, I watched the pigeons nesting in the eaves, jumping slightly as someone called my name.

“Ambrose?”

I turned in shock, quickly embracing her, “Aurelie!”

As she returned the embrace, I eyed the notebook and flowers in her hand.

“For Julia?”

She beamed, “For Julia.”

Hand in hand, we entered the cathedral, our lives forever changed because of a little black book.