When emptying my mom’s hope chest of random blankets and doilies, I found a sealed letter. On the front, it stated, “To Steve”—my dad’s name. A sealed letter from my Mom, who’s been dead for 26 years. How in the heely hay could a sealed letter from her exist?
When I opened it, the first thing I saw was true to form, a notepad with a prescription drug advertisement on its top. She was a nurse, after all, and free notepads like this one riddled our kitchen counter.
The letter, in her own handwriting, was dated 5-8-85. I was three years old and my brother was five months old. And it starts-
“Dear Steve,
You will probably find this a strange letter, but I must write you. We’ve never really discussed this much, and I must be reassured. If something unforeseen ever happens to me and you are the one left to raise our kids, promise me several things.”
For personal reasons, I won’t want to share specifics of who she didn’t want my brother and me to be raised by, but I will share that she didn’t want us “shuffled back and forth between homes” as it “would confuse us.” And also didn’t want us growing up in daycare.
She continues, “You are asking yourself—what then?”
Her matter-of-fact answer is honest and cute: “Well, you need to remarry Steve.” She also said, “You are the type of man who needs a wife, and the kids need a mother. You are a good man; any woman would be privileged to be your wife.”
I had to pause and feel my feelings at this. Experiencing her love and admiration for my dad is bittersweet, and seeing it in real-time all these years later is like a genie granting a wish I didn’t know I wanted.
She goes on, “Please, Steve, consider this. It’s what I’d want—believe that. You’ll care for Jaclynn and Kyle always, I know. Just find a woman who’d love them as I do. I just feel like I needed to tell you this. Life’s so uncertain. I can’t believe God would take me away, with them so young and after he gave us these two beautiful children, but we never know.”
And she ends it, “All my love, Your Wife.”
Shortly after reading it, I called my Dad and shared it with him. I told him how wrong I was to think that death meant gone forever. In the last 26 years, pleasant surprises, like the letter I found today, have kept my Mom’s memory alive and flourishing.
Just an ordinary day with a speckle of magic in it.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 