Growing up, Mom had one unbreakable rule: never touch her closet. I never understood why, and she never explained. After she passed, I came home to pack up her things. I finally opened the forbidden closet, but what I found there left me questioning everything I thought I knew.
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I used to think my mother was magic. Not in the fairy-tale sense, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible way she moved through life — always graceful, always knowing.
A thoughtful woman | Source: Midjourney
Her name was Portia, and she had a laugh like chimes in the wind. But even as a child, I knew there were parts of her I wasn’t allowed to touch. One thing my mom kept private and stood out to me most was the closet in her bedroom.
Her voice still echoed in my head: “Never go in there, Miranda.” Not a suggestion. A rule.
And when I asked why — because what child wouldn’t? — she’d give me the same response every time, her voice firm. “That’s grown-up stuff. You’ll understand one day.”
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A woman speaking to her daughter | Source: Midjourney
But I never did. At least, not until after she was gone.
The house felt cavernous when I arrived. I was here to pack it up, and every room was steeped in memories. My father, Robert, sat on the living room couch, flipping through a photo album with the same vacant expression he’d worn since the funeral.
“She was good at keeping things,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
