If We Had More Time
679 Words
My Bluebird,
If you’re reading this, then it looks like I finally lost the argument with the doctors.
To be fair, I think I held my own for quite a while.
I kept telling them I had plans.
They kept telling me to rest.
I told them resting was for people who didn’t have daughters who still left wet towels on the bed.
I’m still convinced I was right.
Now before you start crying, stop.
Yes, I’m serious.
Don’t make that face either. I know exactly which one you’re making.
The one where your eyebrows meet in the middle because you’re trying very hard not to cry.
You’ve had that face since you were six.
I was hoping you’d outgrow it.
Apparently not.
I wish we had more time.
Not because I have grand speeches left to make or life lessons you’ve never heard before.
I just wanted more ordinary days with you.
One more Sunday morning where you complained that I’d woken you up too early.
One more shopping trip where you’d tell me I was embarrassing because I insisted on greeting every security guard by name.
One more argument about why pineapple absolutely belongs on pizza, even though you’re determined to be wrong for the rest of your life.
I wanted one more hug that you’d pretend not to enjoy.
I wanted one more “Goodnight, Mum.”
Funny how the smallest things become the biggest ones when you realise they’re running out.
If Kathy is reading this over your shoulder, tell her she’s nosy.
Hi, Kathy.
And no, you still haven’t returned my blue casserole dish.
Don’t argue.
I checked before I wrote this.
Now, back to you, Bluebird.
If Mrs. Ellis has asked whether you’ve eaten today, please don’t give her a hard time.
She’s only doing what I would have done.
Actually… she’s probably doing it better.
She always thought I worried too much.
She was right.
I did.
I worried when you started secondary school.
I worried when you learned to drive.
I worried every time you came home late from work and said, “I’m fine,” before I’d even asked.
I suppose that’s the job description.
Nobody tells you motherhood is just loving someone enough to worry about them for the rest of your life.
And I’d do it all over again.
Every single time.
Bluebird…
The next part of this letter is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.
Not because I don’t know what to say.
I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head more times than I can count.
Sometimes while driving to work.
Sometimes in the shower.
Sometimes I’d look at you across the dinner table and think, “Maybe today’s the day.”
Then you’d start telling me about your day, or complain about a meeting, or laugh at something Kathy had done, and I’d tell myself, “Tomorrow.”
I had convinced myself there would always be a tomorrow.
Life, as you’ve probably noticed by now, had other plans.
There are things I’ve kept from you for twenty-two years.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because I didn’t trust you.
And never because I doubted your strength.
I kept them because every decision I made came down to one question.
Would telling you this make your life better…
Or simply make it heavier?
Every time, I chose to carry the weight myself.
Maybe I was right.
Maybe I was wrong.
I’ll leave that for you to decide.
If, after reading this, you’re angry with me, I won’t blame you.
In fact, I’d be surprised if you weren’t.
You’re my daughter.
You come by your stubbornness honestly.
But before you decide who I was…
Before you decide whether I deserve your forgiveness…
I need you to know something.
You’ve spent your whole life knowing me as your mother.
The woman I’m about to tell you about…
…is simply Priscilia.
She was younger.
She was hopeful.
She believed life was much simpler than it really is.
And she fell in love.
That…
is where our story begins.
- Writer
