When I lent my mom my car for a weekend getaway, she returned it spotless, but I noticed she’d rummaged through the glove box. She mentioned a photo of me and Dad I kept there, saying she thought she’d burned every copy. Shocked, I asked why. She admitted to erasing Dad’s presence after their divorce, hoping for a fresh start. She revealed he’d cheated for years, even on the day of that lake photo, but didn’t tell me to protect my memories.
A mysterious letter from Mara, Dad’s last mistress, arrived, claiming he loved me despite his regrets. Photos and letters revealed he was sick in his final months, something even Mom didn’t know. Through Mara, I learned Dad tried to reconnect but feared my rejection. His journal, filled with messy love and remorse, confirmed it. I shared it with Mom, who read it and softened, seeing why I held onto his memory.
The glove box photo now sits framed beside one of Mom and me. We’ve healed some, not by erasing pain, but by facing truth. People are flawed, but love persists in the cracks. Healing starts when you confront the whole story, holding both the good and the broken.
