One man's junk is someone's treasure

What is the definition of a stranger? Could it be someone you once loved? Someone who left when they should have stayed, protected you. The despair I'd felt was unfathomable. She'd always been there, silently, willingly. Even when I knew she'd disappeared within herself. She was my mother, she should have stayed. That was almost 30 years ago.

I stared at the letter. Wondering how they'd found me. After all we'd moved around a bit. From the bottom of the island to the very top. Scotland was where my husband's parents lived. I knew no one when we first arrived. To tell you the truth I still didn't. Almost thirty years of being the devoted wife, my children's mother. I was exhausted. Being everything to five needy beings could eviscerate any human. I'd often try to remember who I used to be before I met David. Before I became David. My children left one by one, until four empty chairs stood accusingly around the dining table. Their worn seats hidden by the polished tabletop. I'd sit in the silence, waiting to be useful. Waiting until I heard the front door open, for time to begin again. After all I'd been carefully moulded. My husband's cold hands had formed my limbs into his own creation, my spirit guided by his whims.

Then the letter arrived, he was at work when I heard the letterbox rattle. I dutifully collected the mail, placing it on the hallway table beside the telephone. As I rifled through, removing any junk mail, I spotted my name, handwritten. The thing that caught my attention the most was my last name. Not my married name, but the name I once was before I became something else. With trembling hands I took the envelope from the pile. Even though I was alone, I was afraid he'd know I opened a letter without his permission, but it was my name.

I quickly opened the letter, my heart thundering as I stared at the door. There were two pieces of folded paper. One clean and crisp, typed and informal. The other was yellowed, lined handwriting paper with scrawls upon it. Handwriting I vaguely recognised. As I read the first letter tears fell, almost blurring the stark sentences. The text becoming dappled with my sorrow. My mother was dead. Died of Cancer, in a hospice, peacefully surrounded by loved ones. Who, I wondered. Loved ones, those two words hurt the most. Wasn't I supposed to be one of them.

Then the letter continued, explaining that my mother's last wish was for them to give me a letter she'd wrote 30 years ago. One that had been returned to her. She'd tried to find me, apparently, but she was unable to track me down until her husband finally succeeded. 'Her husband!' He discovered who I'd become. My last name, where I lived. That was 2 years ago. She'd been afraid to contact me, as we'd become strangers. She'd felt guilty for leaving, even though she'd left to save herself. My heart seemed to suddenly stop at those words. A feeling of apprehension fogging my senses. I knew what she meant. I'd felt it too. But then, I hadn't been brave enough.

I opened the handwritten letter, the paper delicate and read what my mother had wrote me 30 years ago. Each word lifting the veil; as my mother and I became reacquainted.

'Dear Lucy.

There’s so many things I need to say to you, it’s difficult to know where to start. I’ll start with feelings I’ve kept to myself, until now.

One man’s junk is someone's treasure Lucy. That’s how I once thought of myself, your dad’s junk, a collection of useless oddments. Odd is what my mum labeled me. ‘Oh don’t mind Sally, she’s just a bit odd.’ What made me odd was never explained to me. I felt it though, my mum’s idea seemed to seep into my bones. I’d look in the bathroom mirror at my angular face; at my dish water eyes; at my sloped nose that sat slightly askew. I was nothing out of the ordinary. Then I met your dad…

He was at the bus stop at the bottom of my street. He smiled at me, genuinely smiled as though I was just like any other girI. He asked to meet me, even waited outside the little Co-op where I worked part-time. He held my hand in public, and warded off all contempt from my mother. He made me think I was his greatest treasure. That’s how he made me feel-pretty; worthwhile. He wore me well.

My feet dangled precariously from the pedestal he’d sat me on, until it crumbled into dust; my feet becoming lodged in the mundane. My life became ruled by every day details. His eyes rolled when I spoke, his tongue viperous.

When did I become his junk? Was it before you were born, or before I finished university with a first in History. Was it when I started to earn more money than him. Was it the need to belittle me that made him a man? I lost myself without realising what I’d lost. It became easier to play his game, to ease his ego. I worked less hours, waited for his call, stopped meeting friends. I leapt at his every whim, and taught you how to be less.

Becoming junk was a slow process, the persistent prodding, the invasion of my mind, bleaching my spirit until it remained only a thin veil. To the outside world I was your dad’s treasure, I was his most precious object, polished and gilded. A possession chained to his treasure chest, an acquisition to show off at parties.

Then one day I finally woke up…his spell dispersed, you had fallen for the same pretense. I recognised David’s façade immediately. I had to protect my greatest treasure, you, so I left. I begged you to come with me, but you chose a different path. I understand. I’ve been you. You’ll probably think that I’m wrong. That’s OK, I wouldn’t have listened either.

So here I am Lucy, I’m living my own life now. I’m happier and I’m here to listen, anytime. Just remember that you’re treasure not someone’s junk!'

Love mum x

I carefully refolded and placed the letter in my pocket. Even as my heart broke, my mother's words awoke my spirit. I would be my mother's daughter. I'd be brave too. With a new resolve, I trod the frayed stair carpet and packed, no longer afraid. I had someone to be.