When Abi’s mother is rushed to the hospital with excruciating pain and a persistent fever, the doctors announce she needs urgent surgery. Abi prepares to do what any worried daughter would do… until her mother makes a perplexing request: to go home and burn a notebook. What could that notebook possibly contain, and why is it so important?
When my mother started feeling unwell, with a sharp pain in her abdomen and a steadily rising fever, we both suspected something serious was wrong, though neither of us dared to say it aloud.
„Abigail,” she murmured from the sofa, „let me take a painkiller and rest. If she doesn’t get better, we’ll go to the hospital. Okay?”
I nodded, though deep down I was afraid. My mother had always hated hospitals, so we decided to wait. But around midnight, her fever spiked, and the pain became unbearable.
„It’s time, Abi,” she whispered, clutching her pajamas to bear the pain.
In the ER, the doctor was direct:
„It’s appendicitis. I don’t know how you’ve endured it for so long, Diana. We need to operate as soon as possible. The nurses will get you ready.”
„When is the surgery?” I asked, my voice trembling.
„First thing tomorrow. We can’t delay it any longer.”
I spent the night by her side, dozing in a hard chair while listening to the constant beeping of the machines. The next morning, as they prepared her, I saw the fear reflected in her eyes.
„Mom, everything’s going to be all right,” I tried to reassure her. „It’s a routine procedure.”
She nodded, but just as the nurses went to take her away, she grabbed my hand with unexpected force.
„Abi, don’t stay here. Go home,” she said in a whisper. „Burn my notebook.” The black one, the one next to my bed. Please… if anything happens to me, that notebook mustn’t exist.
I froze.
„Mom, what are you saying? You’re going to be fine. It’s just appendicitis.”
„I know…” she sighed. „But promise me. Don’t read it. Don’t open it. Just burn it. I’ll explain later.”
„Okay, Mom,” I agreed. „I promise.”
Only then did she seem to calm down.
I went home with a thousand questions swirling in my head. What could be in that notebook that I wanted to destroy at all costs?
Just as she said, the notebook was on the nightstand: black, leather, without a single mark to reveal its contents. I picked it up, hesitating.
„Do I keep my promise… or do I find out what it hides?” I whispered.
Finally, I opened it.
On the first page was a portrait of my father. A drawing so lifelike I felt he was looking right at me from the paper. I turned the page: another portrait, warmer, smiling. Then another. And another. His face captured from every angle, with every imaginable expression.
„It can’t be…” I murmured.
I flipped through the pages with growing anxiety, until I reached the last one. There, in my mother’s small handwriting, was a single sentence:
I loved you, Adam. Even when you no longer loved me.
I felt a lump in my throat.
My mother had poured all her pain into that notebook. Every stroke, every shadow, was a silent lament for a love that had scarred her to the bone. And now she was afraid my father would discover how much she still loved him.
I couldn’t burn it.
I took it with me back to the hospital.
When I arrived, my mother was already awake, pale but alive. I sat beside her and took her hand.
“Did you do it, Abi? Did you take care of the notebook?” she asked with difficulty.
“I went home,” I replied. “But I couldn’t burn it.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. For a moment I thought she would be upset. But instead, she squeezed my hand and offered a weak smile.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I was just afraid… that your father would find it. I didn’t want him to think that…”
“That you were desperate?” I interrupted. “Mom, you weren’t. You loved it. That doesn’t make you weak.”
She closed her eyes, exhausted.
Later, when she woke up again, I said:
“I’m sorry for reading it.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “Drawing was my way of surviving. I didn’t want you to carry that burden too.”
I took a breath, trying to put into words what I felt.
“Mom… your drawings are amazing.” You made it so real it felt like it was right in front of me.
„I spent hours on those pages,” she admitted softly. „It was the only way to get him out of my mind.”
„You don’t have to be ashamed of the pain,” I told her. „Everything you felt was real.”
She nodded, silent tears welling in her eyes.
„Promise me you won’t show him,” she pleaded. „I don’t want Adam to know how much I still cared.”
„It’s our secret,” I promised.
A faint smile touched her lips.
„Thanks, sweetheart. Can you get me some Jell-O? I taste awful from the anesthetic.”
„Sure, I’ll be right back.”
I left her lying there, calm for the first time in a long time. I knew the divorce had hurt her… but I never imagined how much.
Now, at least, we could talk about it. And heal, together.