When my mom first came down with a fever and a sharp, stabbing pain in her stomach, we were both worried—but she hated hospitals with a passion.
“Abigail,” she said, leaning weakly against the couch, her face pale with sweat, “let me just take some painkillers and rest. If it doesn’t get better, then we’ll go. Okay?”
I nodded, even though my gut told me we should go right then. My mom had always been stubborn about hospitals, and I didn’t want to upset her further.
But by midnight, things got much worse. She tossed and turned, clutching her pajamas with trembling hands. Her skin was burning hot, her forehead drenched in sweat.
“It’s time, Abi,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my bag, helped her into the car, and drove us to the emergency room, my heart pounding the entire way.
The doctor examined her quickly and then shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s appendicitis,” he confirmed. “And I honestly don’t know how you’ve been coping, Diana. We need to get you into surgery as soon as possible. I’ll have the nurses settle you in and get you onto an IV.”
I felt my throat tighten. “When will Mom have surgery?” I asked nervously.
“Tomorrow morning,” the doctor replied firmly. “We cannot put it off any longer.”
That night, I stayed by her side, curled up in an uncomfortable armchair, half-awake, just listening to the sounds of her breathing and the beeping monitors.
By morning, when the nurses prepared her for surgery, I could see how terrified she was.
“Mom, it’s going to be okay,” I whispered, holding her hand tightly. “They do this every day. It’s a routine procedure.”
She nodded faintly, but her wide eyes betrayed her fear. Then, just before the orderlies wheeled her into the operating room, she suddenly grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.
“Abi,” she said urgently, her voice trembling, “don’t stay here. Don’t wait for me. Please, darling, go home and burn my notebook. It’s the black one by my bedside. If anything happens to me, Abi, I need that book gone.”
I froze. “Mom, what are you talking about? You’re going to be fine. It’s just appendicitis.”
“I know,” she said, her breathing uneven. “But Abigail, promise me. Burn it. Don’t read it, don’t go through it. Just burn it. When I come out on the other side, I’ll explain. But for now… please.”
I could see the desperation in her eyes. I didn’t want her going into surgery with that weight on her chest.
“Okay, Mom,” I said softly, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”
Her face relaxed a little, and she let go, allowing them to wheel her away.
But as soon as she disappeared down the hallway, my mind began racing. Burn her notebook? What was in it that she wanted erased so badly?
I told myself to wait. To be patient. But curiosity burned in me like fire. I knew surgery and recovery would take hours. I couldn’t stop thinking about her words.
“What’s in that notebook, Mom?” I whispered as I drove home. “What could you possibly be hiding?”
When I entered her room, I saw it right away—sitting neatly on her nightstand. A plain, black leather notebook, no title, no markings. Beside it were charcoal pencils and fine liners. My stomach churned as I reached for it.
“Do I keep my promise,” I murmured, “or do I find out what you were so desperate to hide?”
I stared at it for what felt like forever. Then, unable to resist, I flipped it open.
And my breath caught.
The first page was a sketch—so lifelike it nearly startled me. It was my dad. His eyes sparkled from the page as though he were looking right at me.
I flipped the page. Another drawing. This time, he was smiling, his arm casually slung over a chair. Another page—another portrait. His face at every angle, his every expression captured in loving detail.
“What on earth…” I whispered, my hands trembling as I turned the pages faster and faster.
Finally, I reached the last page. There were no drawings—just a single line in my mother’s delicate handwriting:
I loved you, Adam. Even when you didn’t love me back.
I sank to the floor, stunned.
“Wow…” I breathed. My heart ached as I realized what this notebook truly was. My mom had poured her soul into it—every ounce of love and pain she carried after my father left us.
How could I destroy this? How could I burn the evidence of her broken heart?
I shut the book gently and pressed it against my chest. “I can’t do it, Mom. I can’t erase your love.”
So, I carried it with me back to the hospital.
When I arrived, she was still in recovery—pale, weak, but alive. I sat by her side, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. Finally, she stirred.
Her voice was raspy, but her first words pierced through me. “Did you get to the book, Abi?”
I hesitated. “I did,” I admitted softly. “But I couldn’t burn it.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and for a second, I feared I’d disappointed her. But then, she gave my hand a weak squeeze and whispered, “It’s okay, darling. I just didn’t want your father to find it… if something happened to me. I didn’t want him to think I was—”
“Crazy? Pathetic? Sad?” I finished for her. “Mom, you’re none of those things. You loved him. There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s the one who left us when he had that affair, not you.”
Her lips quivered as more tears slipped down her cheeks. She closed her eyes briefly and whispered, “I’m sorry you saw it.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be sorry. I saw how much you loved him. And Mom… those drawings are breathtaking. It was like he was standing right in front of me.”
She gave a faint smile. “I spent hours on those, Abi. After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I read about writing down grief… but I couldn’t write it. I could only draw it. Maybe the pain never fully left, but it helped me survive.”
I brushed her hair back gently. “Mom, it’s okay to hurt. You loved him since you were eighteen. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”
Her eyes filled again. “I was so scared… that if I didn’t make it through surgery, he might find that notebook. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing how much I still cared.”
“He’s not going to find out,” I promised. “This will stay a secret between us. When you’re ready, you can decide what to do with it. Until then… it’s safe with me.”
Relief softened her face. She gave a small nod and whispered, “Thank you, sweetheart. That means more to me than you know. Now, can you please get me some jello or something? I need to get rid of this awful metallic taste in my mouth.”
I laughed through the lump in my throat. “Coming right up.”
As I walked out to find her some food, I thought about how deeply she had been wounded—and how strong she had been to carry it all this time in silence.
That notebook wasn’t just sketches. It was her heart. Her love. Her grief.
And now… it was our secret.
But I couldn’t stop asking myself—
What would you have done?