“Baby, why are you crying?” he asked, staring around the room. “What is all this?”
“It’s your mother and everything that meant something to her,” I sniffed.
“She kept all this, the letters I wrote her, stuff from our wedding, and even the baby booties.”
I handed him Carol’s letter, and his eyes softened as he read it. “Wow,” he said. “She never told me any of this.”
“She didn’t know how,” I said with complete confidence.
I finally understood Carol’s heart. “She had been closed off to the world for too long. But she felt it.
She felt our love. She loved us, too.”
Eric openly wept, and I held him, crying with him.
After a while, we composed ourselves and began sorting through the storeroom. Together, we discovered other precious items—old photos from Eric’s childhood, his school drawings, trophies and awards he had won, and so much more.
Carol had finally revealed the depth of her feelings, and I knew we would keep these mementos in our home forever.
Weeks later, after we packed everything and put her property up for sale, it didn’t feel bittersweet.
We were taking Carol’s treasures—and our newfound understanding of her—home with us.
A year later, we welcomed another Carol into our lives — our baby. I made her wear those booties until they were worn out, and her grandmother’s portrait hung in her room, right by her crib.
Wherever she is now, I know Carol is watching over her granddaughter with all her quiet strength, and her silent, hidden affection.
Source: amomama
