Why I Couldn’t Stand Her: The Unopened Letter in the Desk

The crumpled letter stared up at me from the bottom of Mom’s desk drawer—right beside her resignation notice. I hadn’t meant to find it. I was just looking for a pen, rifling through the mess of receipts and old birthday cards, when my fingers brushed against the paper. My heart thudded. I knew I shouldn’t read it, but I couldn’t help myself. It felt like the letter had been waiting for me all along, like a secret breathing in the dark, begging to be let out.

I unfolded it, hands shaking. My mind flashed back to childhood, to days when I hid in my room while Mom clattered around the kitchen, her voice slicing through the house like a cold wind. “Ethan! Dishes!” she’d yell, and there was never a please. Every word from her felt like a command, a test I could never pass. Dad used to joke, “Your mom’s a force of nature, son. Just try not to get swept away.” But it never felt like a joke to me.

The letter was addressed to no one. The handwriting was tight, controlled, just like her.

I remember the last time I saw her cry. It was after Grandpa’s funeral. I was twelve, standing in the hallway, listening to her sob behind the closed bathroom door. I wanted to go in, to comfort her, but something stopped me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was resentment that she never did the same for me.

“Ethan, what are you doing in there?” Dad’s voice jolted me back to the present. I shoved the letter under a pile of papers, heart pounding. “Nothing. Just looking for a pen.”

He peered over my shoulder, eyes tired and red-rimmed. “You okay, kid?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Fine.”

But I wasn’t. Not really. Because every time I came home—to the house I grew up in, the house that felt less and less like mine—I felt like an intruder. I was twenty-seven, living in Chicago, working a job I hated, coming back to Ohio only for holidays or emergencies. And now, apparently, to help Dad sort through Mom’s things after she left.

That was the central issue, wasn’t it? She left. She resigned from her job at the school, packed a suitcase, and—without a word—disappeared. No note, no explanation. Just gone.

The family group chat had exploded. Aunt Linda was convinced Mom had run off with someone from church. My sister, Grace, was angry, sending one-word messages: “Unbelievable.” Dad just shut down, staring at the TV for hours.

At dinner that night, the silence was thick. Grace stabbed her salad. Dad pushed peas around his plate. I wanted to scream.

“Did anyone try her cell?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

Grace snorted. “She blocked us, Ethan. You didn’t notice?”

Dad winced. “Maybe she just needs space.”

I slammed my fork down. “Space? She left, Dad. She left us.”

Grace glared at me. “You never liked her anyway.”

That stung. Harder than I expected. Because it was true. I hadn’t liked her. I resented her. For her perfection, her coldness, her way of making me feel small. For never coming to my soccer games, for criticizing my grades even when I tried my best. For the way she looked at me when I said I wanted to be an artist, not an engineer.

But I’d never wanted her gone. Not like this.

Later, after Dad and Grace went to bed, I crept back to the desk and pulled out the letter. My hands were sweaty. I read it under the harsh light of the kitchen.

“To whom it may concern,” it began. “I spent my whole life trying to be enough. Enough for my parents, enough for my children, enough for myself. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I never let anyone see me break, then maybe I’d deserve their love. But I’m tired. I can’t breathe in this house anymore. I need to find out who I am when I’m not taking care of everyone else. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe that makes me a terrible mother. But I can’t stay. Not anymore.”

I read it twice, three times. My chest ached. For the first time, I saw her not as the villain of my childhood, but as someone drowning quietly while the rest of us watched TV upstairs.

When I went to bed, I lay awake, remembering little things: The way her hands shook when she poured coffee. How she used to hum when she thought no one was listening. The time I came home late and found her asleep at the kitchen table, my name written over and over on a scrap of paper, as if she was trying to summon me home.

In the morning, Dad found me at the table, the letter between us.

“You read it?” he asked, voice rough.

I nodded. “Did you know?”

He sighed, looking older than ever. “I knew she was unhappy. I just thought… I thought she’d get over it.”

Grace joined us, hair wild, face pale. I handed her the letter. She read it in silence, tears slipping down her cheeks. For the first time in years, we sat together, not as adversaries, but as three people trying to make sense of the same mystery.

“She’s not coming back, is she?” Grace whispered.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

There’s no neat ending to this story. Mom never called. Months passed. Dad started gardening, Grace started therapy, and I started writing letters to Mom I never sent. Sometimes I see her in the faces of strangers on the street. Sometimes I hate her all over again. But sometimes, I forgive her. And myself.

Do we ever really know the people we call family? Or do we just see the parts of them that fit our story? I wonder if Mom ever found what she was looking for—or if any of us ever will.