I always believed my mother and I were all we had until her will proved otherwise. It wasn’t until I found a letter tucked away in her room that the truth began to surface.I loved my mother deeply. But never had a father.When I was little and Father’s Day came around, I felt lost.My mother, Margaret, would just say, “It’s always been you and me, Claire. That’s more than enough.” I believed her. Or at least I tried to.The problem was that my mother was always distant. She cared for me and ensured I had everything I needed. Yet she never hugged me, and when I cried, she’d pat my shoulder instead of pulling me close.
I used to stand in the doorway of her bedroom at night when I was seven.”Mom?” I’d say.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”She used to say, “You’re a big girl, Claire. You’ll be fine in your own room.”I would nod and walk away, pretending it didn’t sting.She rarely showed up to my school plays. Afterward, she claimed it was because of a migraine. We never had long, heartfelt conversations over tea about life or my relationships. But when I graduated from college, she was there.When I hugged her after the ceremony, she stiffened. “I’m proud of you.”It sounded rehearsed.After graduation, I moved to another city for work. I built an independent life. I worked at a marketing firm, rented a small apartment, and filled my weekends with friends who felt more like family than anyone else ever had.
From time to time, I called her and sometimes visited.”How are you feeling?” I would ask on a call.”How’s the house?”It’s the same.”