Shame

         I hold the box in my hands, the only thing given me by my mother’s sister, probably the only thing she ever owned. Intricate carvings cover the miniature cedar chest, and a tiny padlock holds it shut. I slip the key into the lock and turn it. Once the lock is removed, I open the lid. I never met her but tears pool in my eyes, half blinding me. I wipe them away. I want to see. I must see what Aunt Mildred hid all these years, hid as she hid herself.

         I sit the box on the table and remove a letter, a postcard, two photos, and an earring. With care, I open the letter. The writing looks like my mother’s. What? Why did Aunt Mildred keep just one letter from her? I know the sisters exchanged letters at least monthly until Mom’s death. My eyes scan the words, remembering how I enjoyed reading Mom’s letters to me over the years, always handwritten, never typed, and she never tried a computer.
         Dear Mildred,
           I can’t imagine how hard this decision is for you. If you should
         change your mind, David and I would understand. You know we would help you every way
          possible. Be sure before you sign the papers. Don’t think you must punish yourself.
                              Your loving sister, Nancy

         My hands tremble as I lay the fragile sheet of paper aside. I rub my temple and close my eyes. I don’t understand. I open my eyes and glance toward the other items on the table. I reach for the postcard, one from San Antonio, where I was born. The postmark is my birth date. The address on the card is my aunt’s and the message simply, “It’s a girl, Rose Mildred Ryan.” My name, my birthday … I don’t understand.

         With a deep breath, I pick up the photos. In one my dad holds a baby, careful to show her face. I know the baby is a she because I recognize the picture of me. The other is one of me as I sat behind a birthday cake with one large candle. My fingers sunk into the frosting as I grinned, showing four front teeth. Two pictures of me, why? Why would an aunt I never met, never seemed to want to contact me have pictures of me?

         I pick up the last item from the box and turn it over and over in my fingers. The earring looks familiar, but I can’t remember where I’d seen it before. The gold spun web holds a tiny diamond, my birthstone. My birthstone … my birthstone.

         I drop the jewelry as if it is burning hot. Yes, I remember the erring, a set given me on my eighteenth birthday. I lost one a few months later; I thought I lost it. How did it get in my aunt’s box? Why did she have it?

         I put all the items back into the box, locked it, and put the tiny key back in the envelope it came in. Laying the envelope beside the box, I reach for the phone and punch in the numbers I know by heart, have called for many years. I wish Mom would be the one who answered, but, well, maybe Dad would answer my questions since Mom can’t.

         I return the phone to its cradle. Suddenly, I know. I know. I am the secret. I am the reason Aunt, no, can’t call her aunt, but can’t call her my mother. My mother is gone. Not this woman I never knew; not this woman who felt I was something to hide; not this woman who hid because I was her shame.

         I fold my arms on the table, pillow my face on them, and cry. I wish she had never left me this legacy. I wish I didn’t know.



Words: 650