But why? What was in that toolbox that April didn’t want me to find? ***
The following day, I tried everything to break that lock.
When bolt cutters and a hammer did nothing, I even tried picking it with a bobby pin like they do in the movies. Nothing worked. I collapsed on my living room floor and stared at the toolbox.
I was convinced April had lied to me about Dad losing the key. And I knew exactly where April kept everything valuable or important: her jewelry box. The only way I’d get that key was if I went into the lion’s den to steal it.
I pulled out my phone and called April. “April? Hi, it’s me.
I’ve been thinking about your offer, and I might be interested after all. Could I come over to look at Dad’s things to see what I might want to keep instead?”
“Of course! Why don’t you come over this afternoon?
We can have tea.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
That afternoon, I sat down to tea with April and pretended to search through a box of Dad’s things for a memento to replace the toolbox. “Look, here are the cufflinks that were passed down to him from his father,” April said as she lifted them from the box, “and this is the watch he got as a retirement gift.”
I made appropriate sounds of interest while she showed me each item, but my mind was focused on one thing: getting to that jewelry box.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I said when I’d drunk half my tea. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Of course, honey. You know where it is.”
I walked down the hall toward the bathroom, then slipped into the bedroom.
My mouth went dry as I hurried to the dresser. The jewelry box sat in the top drawer, where it had always been. Inside, nestled between April’s jewelry and other mementos, I found a key with the same brand name as the padlock on the toolbox.
Bingo! I tucked it into my pocket and hurried back to the living room. April had removed even more items while I was gone and arranged them on the coffee table.
I sat down and looked them over, pretending to consider Dad’s favorite tie, before leaning back with a sigh. “This is a big decision. I need more time to think about it.”
“Of course, honey.
Take all the time you need.”
I finished my tea and headed home. The minute I stepped through the door, I pulled the stolen key from my pocket and slid it into the lock. It fit perfectly.
The lock clicked open. I opened the toolbox and stared dumbly at the contents. It was full of tools.
Screwdrivers of various types and sizes, a flashlight, and hex keys. Nothing unusual, and nothing worth $5000, that’s for sure. “This can’t be it,” I muttered.
I removed the top tray and found a variety of wrenches in there. I dug through them, and there, right at the bottom, was a flat object wrapped in thick plastic. That had to be the secret April didn’t want me to find.
Inside the plastic was an envelope full of papers; divorce papers filed between my father and Susannah, my mother, the woman Dad told me had died when I was a toddler. I read the papers three times before the truth started to sink in: Dad had lied to me about my mother’s death, and April had known about it. The reason listed for the divorce made my stomach turn: “Irreconcilable differences caused by instability and unsafe behavior.”
Dad must have wanted me to know the truth after he died, but what did it all mean?
What had really happened between him and my biological mother? Unfortunately, the only person who might have answers was April. Minutes later, I drove back to her house without calling.
When April opened the door, I held up the key I’d taken from her jewelry box. Her face went pale. “You opened it.”
“And found the divorce papers.
Dad lied to me my whole life, and you knew about it.”
For the first time since I’d known her, April looked genuinely rattled. “He made me promise not to tell you. It was for your own good, Marla.
That woman, your mother, she wasn’t safe for you to be around.”
“But why? What did she do?”
April clenched her jaw. “Simply put, she went nuts after you were born.
Your father said there were times she thought you weren’t even real.”
“Like postpartum psychosis?”
I’d read about it somewhere, how new mothers sometimes developed severe mental health issues after giving birth. April shrugged. “Maybe that’s how it started, but it didn’t go away.
Your father tried to get her help, but she’d stay on medication for a while, then stop, and the whole cycle would repeat itself. By the time you were two, she was disappearing for days at a time. Your father had her admitted to a mental health institution, but she ran away.
That was when he filed for divorce.”
All those years, I’d mourned the woman I didn’t even remember, and she’d been alive all that time? “But what happened to her after that?” I asked. “I don’t know,” April snapped.
“And what does it matter? I’ve been more of a mother to you than that woman ever was. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to open that toolbox!
I knew you’d start asking questions.”
“So it wasn’t just about keeping your promise to Dad,” I said, understanding dawning on me. “You had your own reasons for keeping the truth from me. Were you afraid I’d go looking for her?”
April pressed her lips into a thin line.
I waited for her to say something, anything, but she just stood there, avoiding my eyes like a guilty child. “I guess that answers my question,” I said eventually, and turned to leave. “Don’t do this, Marla,” April called after me when I was halfway to my car.
“That woman—”
“That woman is still my mother,” I said, cutting her off, “and I want to know what happened to her.”
***
It took three days of searching online archives, old newspaper records, and public databases, but I finally found her. It wasn’t good news, however. My world collapsed all over again as I read my mother’s obituary.
She’d died the previous year. All those years I’d been lied to, and when I finally learned the truth, it was too late. There would be no reunion, and no chance to understand what had happened, or find out if she’d ever gotten better.
But I decided I could still connect with her in the only way left to me. I could visit her grave. ***
I walked through the cemetery for 20 minutes before I found her grave.
Her headstone was simple, just her name and two dates that bookended a life I knew nothing about. Someone had left a bouquet of daisies that had long since dried up and turned brown. I moved them to one side and set down the white roses I’d brought.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I wish I’d had a chance to know you, but I was never even given the choice.”
I started crying for the mother I’d never known, for the lies I’d been told, for the years we’d both lost. I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen, and I only stopped when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around and saw an older woman walking toward me. When she spotted me, she pressed a hand to her heart like she’d seen a ghost. “Marla?” she said my name like it was a prayer.
“Could it be… it must be! You look so much like Susannah.”
My heart stopped. “You knew my mother?”
She smiled sadly.
“She was my sister. Oh my God, it’s so good to see you! After everything that happened… I thought I’d never see you again.”
My mother had a sister, which meant I had an aunt.
Family I’d never known existed, standing right there. “Dad told me she died when I was two. I only found out the truth now.”
“Oh, honey.
If only I’d known, but your father cut all contact with us after the divorce.”
“Did she ever get better? Did she… ask about me?”
“I won’t lie to you, Marla. Your mom struggled all her life, but she had good moments.” She smiled at me.
“And when she did, she missed you fiercely. She loved you so much.”
I was crying so hard that was all I could do. “My name is Tanya,” my aunt said, handing me a tissue.
“Let’s go get a coffee and talk. We have so many years to catch up on.”
I might have lost the chance to know the woman who gave birth to me, but I wasn’t alone. I had family I’d never known about, stories I’d never heard, and connections I’d never imagined.
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
