9. Arabella

9

ARABELLA

T he day after the funeral, thankfully, was a Saturday, so I was only on call, as opposed to seeing patients. That morning, Rafferty had encouraged me to go out to my father’s house and begin the process of preparing the house for sale. Stella had called a Realtor friend of hers who had promised to come out on Sunday afternoon to take a look. Before I gave the whole process over to a Realtor, I wanted a chance to look through some things in the attic. My father had never allowed me up there. He said it was because of safety reasons, but I always had the feeling there was more to it. If I were to sell the house and get rid of most of the contents, I wanted to make sure I knew what was up there.

I shivered as I stepped into the dusty attic, the chill slipping in from the tiny window on the far wall. The air was thick with the smell of mothballs and old wood. Boxes upon boxes were stacked neatly, like some archive of a life I barely understood. I took a steadying breath, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, readying myself for the task of sorting through my father’s things.

I didn’t know why I felt so nervous, but as I looked around, the shadows stretching across the dusty floor, a strange prickling feeling crept up my spine. I was about to find something important.

After a few minutes of moving boxes, my eye caught a small wooden chest wedged between an old suitcase and a broken lamp. It was unremarkable in every way—just an old, plain box with metal latches that had begun to rust. My heart started to beat a little faster as I pulled it out.

It’s something in here.

I set the chest on the floor and knelt before it, brushing off the dust. The latches squeaked as I pried it open, lifting the lid to peer inside. It appeared to be a keepsake box—there were newspaper clippings, several notebooks, yearbooks, and a few photographs. At the bottom of all that, a stack of envelopes in varying sizes were bound together with a blue ribbon. I forgot everything else when I saw how the envelope was addressed. To me. And the return address? My mother.

Sally Collins

254 Oak Lane

Missoula, Montana

I flipped through the envelopes with postage dates that spanned over years but were always mailed on the same day, exactly seven days before my birthday. There were fourteen in all. All sealed, untouched. Unread.

“What is this?” I whispered, barely able to breathe. I ran my fingers over the envelopes; their edges softened over time.

I sat back, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and disbelief as I held the bundle of letters in my lap. Each one marked a year, a birthday I’d spent here, under my father’s roof, completely unaware that somewhere out there, my mother had thought of me, remembered me, and written to me. And he’d hidden them. He’d hidden all of them.

My throat tightened, and I felt the sting of tears as I held the cards, my fingers tracing over her neat, precise handwriting. How could he have kept these from me? The very thought seemed unthinkable, a cruelty I couldn’t comprehend. Taking a shaky breath, I untied the ribbon, letting it fall loose around my hands.

A ribbon. He’d bothered to tie them all together but not give them to me?

What have you done?

With trembling fingers, I carefully opened the first envelope, dated for my fifth birthday. Inside was a card, bright and cheerful, with a cartoon puppy wearing a party hat and holding a cupcake in its mouth. The text on the front read, “Happy Birthday to You!” in playful letters.

My Sweet Arabella,

Happy fifth birthday. I hope you’re smiling and laughing today and that you have a cake with sprinkles and candles to blow out. If I could be there, I’d hold you tight and never let go. Every day, I miss you with all my heart, and I dream of the day when I might see you again.

Please know that I love you, always and forever. Keep that close, my brave girl.

With all my love,

Mom

The words blurred as tears stung my eyes. I had no memory of my fifth birthday, no recollection of cake or candles. In all likelihood, my father wouldn’t have allowed me to have a party. Maybe a cake? But when I searched my memory, it was nothing but blank space.

There were similar cards and messages for my sixth, seventh, and eighth birthdays.

The one she’d sent on my ninth birthday featured a beautiful illustration of a forest and a cozy cabin in the background. A few deer and birds added a whimsical touch, and the text on the front read, “For My Beautiful Girl on Her Special Day.” Inside, she’d written:

Happy ninth birthday. It’s hard to believe you’re growing up so fast! I think about you every day, wondering how you’re doing and what you’re interested in and wishing I could see it for myself. Until we meet again, I have only my imagination, thinking of you growing up good and strong. I’m proud of you, Arabella, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing. I carry you with me always.

Be happy, beautiful girl.

With all my heart,

Mom

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of her words. She’d wanted to see me, to know me. She’d been holding me in her heart even though I’d thought she’d forgotten me.

The letter for my tenth birthday came with a lighthearted card featuring a cartoon owl wearing glasses and perched on a branch. The words read, “Look Whooooo’s Turning 10!” I smiled through my tears.

Dear Arabella,

Double digits! You’re growing so fast. I hope this year is full of adventure and happiness for you. I wish I knew all the details.

I’ve no idea if your father lets you open these, but I feel compelled to share with you a little about my life now that you’re old enough to understand. I’ve started volunteering helping recovering addicts. Aiding others struggling with addiction has filled my heart in a lot of the empty spaces. Not all of them, of course. The empty place in my heart is for you and you only.

I’ve met a wonderful man named Jacob and we’re getting married in a few weeks. I wish you could be there.

I imagine you’re having a big-girl party this year. Maybe skating or a movie with your girlfriends? I hope they’re nice and not mean girls. I knew a few of those back in my day. Whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re showered with love.

With endless love,

Mom

I could imagine her picking out the card, smiling at the idea of me reaching this “big” milestone. It was a small connection, but one I clung to.

The next letter, for my eleventh birthday, came with a sweet card featuring a mother and baby fox cuddled together, surrounded by tiny flowers. The words on the front said, “For a Wonderful Daughter.” I traced the edges of the illustration before reading her message inside.

Happy Birthday, Arabella! Wishing you a great year. You’re always in my thoughts and my heart on this day and every day.

I have some very big news to share, something that feels almost like a miracle. This year, I had a baby boy. His name is Daniel. He’s sweet and quiet, kind of like you were as a baby. When he’s old enough, I’ll tell him all about you. He will always know he has an incredible big sister and that someday, God willing, he will meet you. I wish with all my heart that you could be here with us, that we could be a family together.

Daniel’s birth has reminded me that there is always hope, always a chance to rebuild. I know it’s been a long time since I left, and I regret every day that I had to make that choice. But please know, Arabella, that you will always be my first baby—my bright and beloved girl. I think of you every day and hope that someday you’ll find your way back to me.

With all my love,

Mom

A younger brother. I had a brother. Have a brother. I felt a strange ache in my chest, a longing mixed with sadness. She had a new family, yet she’d wanted me to be part of it, too. Even from far away, she’d kept me close.

For my thirteenth birthday, she’d sent an elegant card with a watercolor illustration of wildflowers and butterflies, a touch more mature. The front read, “Celebrating You.”

Happy Birthday to my amazing daughter! I am so proud of the young woman you’re becoming. I’m always cheering you on from afar. I long to see you, to know you. I have no doubt the reality would be even better than my imagination.

Daniel is talking now, running around on chubby legs and getting into everything. I thank God every day for my sobriety so that I can be the mother for him I never had the chance to be for you.

I hope your thirteenth year is full of laughter and fun. Having known you for your first three years, I have no doubt you do very well in school. I could tell how smart you were from the moment I looked into your eyes.

I’m not sure you get these cards. If you do and if you ever want to write back, please know that I welcome any word from you with a grateful and open heart.

With endless love,

Mom

The words felt different now, more reflective, almost as if she were starting to see me not as a little girl but as a young woman. A new ache formed, thinking of all she’d missed and all I’d never known.

The card for my fourteenth birthday was simple but sweet, with a watercolor image of two birds perched together on a branch, surrounded by delicate blossoms. The words on the front read, “Happy Birthday to Someone Very Special.”

Dearest Arabella, happy birthday! I imagine you’re growing more wonderful and wise each year. I think of you every day, wishing I could know the young woman you’re becoming.

Life here is good, steady, and filled with hope. I’ve had another child. A boy named Michael. He’s feisty and mischievous. I’m in trouble with this one! I’ve continued to volunteer and also have started a new career that I’m very excited about. I wish I could tell you all about it.

Know that you’re loved deeply and truly, forever and always.

With all my love,

Mom

The card’s gentle tone and words filled me with a strange mix of comfort and sadness. Each year, her words seemed to reach out, trying to make up for the distance, to offer the love she couldn’t give in person.

For my fifteenth birthday, the card showed a misty forest path leading to a warm glow in the distance, like a sunrise or the end of a journey. The front read simply, “Thinking of You on Your Special Day.”

Inside, her handwriting was as neat and careful as ever.

My dearest Arabella, happy birthday. I’m writing this on a quiet morning, watching the sunrise, thinking of all the moments I wish we could share. I hope this year is full of joy and that you’re surrounded by people who love you.

So much time has passed. So many years that we’ve had to live apart, and yet I carry hope with me every day. Hope that one day we’ll have the chance to know each other again, to make up for all the lost moments. I’ll always be here, waiting, whenever that day comes.

You are and always will be my heart. I love you.

Mom

For my sixteenth birthday, the card was simple, with a soft image of clouds parting to reveal a glowing sunrise. The words on the front read, “For a Beautiful Young Woman on Her Special Day.”

My Dearest Arabella,

Happy sixteenth birthday! Today, I want to share the story of the night you were born, a memory I’ve held close to my heart ever since.

It was a stormy, wild night—the kind where the wind howls and the rain feels like it’s battering down from every side. I remember holding on to the armrest as we drove through that storm, watching the lightning flash across the sky and feeling both terrified and excited, knowing I would meet you soon.

We barely made it to the hospital. Your father cursed the entire ride into town, and I remember thinking—I hope the baby can’t hear his harsh tone. The roads were nearly flooded, and for a while, I worried the doctor wouldn’t make it in time. Your father left me there to drink at the bar, but I had a wonderful nurse who stayed with me. Most fathers during that time were with their wives, but your father was not that kind. But you, my beautiful baby girl, arrived with a strength and certainty all your own that night at 9:17. At 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and 21 inches long, you seemed like a miracle in my arms. You had long, thick lashes and a shock of dark hair, the softest I’d ever felt, framing a face so peaceful and sweet it took my breath away. I’d heard before that the moment you look into your baby’s eyes, you fall madly in love. That was certainly true for me. From that day on, you were my whole heart.

The storm raged on outside, but in that room, holding you, I understood my purpose for the first time. To be your mother. I promised I would always love you fiercely, no matter what came our way. But I let you down. I let a drug become my life when it should have been you.

I’ll never forgive myself for losing you. I’ll never stop hoping that someday I’ll see you again.

I hope this story brings you a little closer to me, wherever you are, and that you know how deeply I cherish the memory of that night.

Each year on your birthday, I buy myself a chocolate cupcake and light a candle, saying a prayer for my baby girl. Wherever you are or whatever you’re doing, I ask God to watch over you.

With all my love, now and forever,

Mom

The card for my seventeenth birthday was understated, with an illustration of a single blooming flower against a soft blue background. The text on the front read, “Happy Birthday to My Daughter.”

Inside, my mother’s handwriting was carefully composed, as if she’d thought over each word before setting it to paper.

Dearest Arabella,

Happy, happy birthday! Seventeen—another year closer to adulthood. I think about you every day, wondering who you’ve become, hoping you’re safe and happy.

This year, I want to tell you the story of how I met your father and what happened between us. I have a feeling he won’t have shared it with you, so here goes.

We met when I was still in high school. I was sixteen, a shy girl from a strict, religious family. I loved school. I’d been chosen for the lead in our high school play, and it was as if I’d found my calling. Your father saw me in that play and pursued me, even though he was ten years older than me. As you’re aware, he was the son of a local ranch family that went back generations. He was handsome and brooding, and I remember thinking he was the most intriguing person I’d ever met. Looking back, he had no business courting a teenage girl, but that’s the sordid truth. No one in my life protected me from him. I thought I was madly in love with him, but I know now it was only infatuation and my need for love. My family was steady but cold, and I yearned for love. When he paid attention to me, it felt like being seen for the first time. After a lot of therapy, I realize that he was basically a predator, and despite my parents’ so-called Christian beliefs, no one bothered to help me.

I had a scholarship to college and wanted to study acting, hoping someday to move to New York City and try to have a career in the theater. But when I found out I was pregnant with you, my life changed overnight. When I told your father, he insisted we get married right away. I’d just turned eighteen, so it was legal. We went to the courthouse, and it was done.

As you might imagine, my family did not take the news well. They were strict and had high expectations. When I told them I was married and pregnant, they were enraged and beyond disappointed. They told me they never wanted to see me again. My mother was the hardest to lose. She never spoke to me again, despite my attempts to reconcile.

To make matters worse, she passed away when you were only a year old. It’s one of the deepest sorrows of my life that she never got to meet you. I wish she could have seen how precious you were, how much light you brought into the world.

In those early years, I realized that your father didn’t want me to have anyone else in my life. He liked me isolated, dependent only on him. It was easier that way, easier to keep me close, easier to keep control. And slowly, over time, I lost my voice, my freedom, until I felt like I didn’t know myself anymore. He used more than just his fists to keep me under. His words wounded me in ways that never healed.

I tell you this not to hurt you or to speak ill of him but because I want you to know where you come from. I want you to understand that you have a strength in you that is all your own. I hope you can use that strength to live freely, make your own choices, and follow the dreams that are yours alone.

I hope you’re surrounded by love on your birthday, doing something you enjoy.

With all my love, now and always,

Mom

Finally, I reached the envelope marked for my eighteenth birthday. The card was more sophisticated, with an elegant tree on the front and the words Happy Birthday .

Inside, she had written the longest message of all, one that held truths I hadn’t known I’d been searching for.

Dear Arabella, today you turn eighteen. It’s a special birthday, one where you’re growing into yourself and seeing the world through new eyes. And because of that, I feel it’s time to tell you the truth.

As I’m sure you know, I left when you were three. I know that must be hard to read, but I want you to understand why. Back then, I was struggling. It started when I broke my leg in three places after your father pushed me down the stairs. What was supposed to be a temporary painkiller became a killer in a whole different way. Soon, I found myself in a dark place, a place I didn’t want to be in but couldn’t escape from. I was addicted and not strong enough to ask for help.

One night, your father found the pills I’d bought illegally. I confessed that I’d become reliant upon them and didn’t know how to stop. I told him I’d been getting the pills from some shady people. Your father was not forgiving. He gave me a choice—leave town and never come back, or he’d turn me into the police. He wanted to protect you, he said, from a drug-crazed lunatic. It crushed me to leave, but I was in the throes of addiction and not thinking right. So, I agreed. I left.

Leaving was the hardest choice I ever made. At the time, I was so strung out and afraid I wasn’t capable of making a rational decision. It is no excuse, but your father’s threats frightened me. I thought you would be better off without me. It took me another two years after I left to finally get help and get sober. When I finally woke up from my drug-induced oblivion, I realized it was too late to try to get you back. I hoped and believed you were better off without me. But I never stopped loving you. I’m here now, waiting and hoping that one day you’ll find me. My porch light is always on.

Since I got help, I’m proud to say I have never once relapsed. I recently earned my fifteen-year chip. I’ve spent every day of my sobriety helping other addicts in one way or another. I wish I could tell you it feels like the good guys are winning, but every day I wake to another person who’s lost their life due to opioids. Still, I keep on fighting. Despite everything, I’ve never lost my will to try to make the world better and to give back.

I have a life that’s meaningful and filled with love. But nothing—no place or purpose—has ever filled the part of my heart that belongs to you.

Now that you’re old enough to decide on your own whether I’m worthy to be in your life, I wanted to reach out one last time to tell you I’m here if you ever want to reach out. That said, I won’t blame you if you want nothing to do with me. I hated myself for what I did to you. I still do. Forgiveness of others seems easier than it is for myself. But if you can forgive me, now that you’re an adult, you can reach me at this number. 423-555-1785.

With all my love forever,

Mom

As I read, tears streamed down my face. I’d spent so many years thinking she had chosen to leave me. That she’d disappeared, not wanting to be found. But I’d had it all wrong. He’d abused her and then sent her away. How had I not suspected this of my father? He’d proven himself cruel my entire life. Why wouldn’t I have at least asked questions?

And why had my father left these in a box instead of just tossing them out when they arrived?

These were questions I would most likely not get answers to.

I hugged the letter to my chest, feeling the ache of both what I’d lost and what I’d found. Somewhere, she had been waiting for me, hoping I would understand. And now I had to try.

I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together as it all sank in. This woman, who had disappeared from my life without explanation, who I’d been told wanted nothing to do with me, had remembered me every single year. Every single birthday. She had cared. More than cared. She’d loved me desperately.

I ran my fingers over the words, wondering what her hand looked like as she wrote. Did she have painted nails? A favorite hand lotion?

The truth was clear to me now. My mother had been forced to leave. Her addiction, the threats, my father’s ultimatum—all of it unfolded in painful detail on the page.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m sorry he stole you from me.”

As if she could hear me.

I hugged the last card to my chest, pressing it against my heart, reeling, scrambling to make sense of what I’d just read. The sadness and desperation in the words on those pages crippled me. How hard it must have been for her, knowing I was only hours away but not able to see me. She must have been terrified of my father to have stayed away after she got sober. She’d stopped writing after I turned eighteen—given up, thinking I didn’t want to hear from her. Or perhaps she’d predicted my father would never have shown them to me, accepting that it was a fight she could not win.

The tragedy of that rendered me inconsolable. I rocked, still holding the card, and let the tears come. In my state of shock and grief, I tried to conjure an image of her before she’d been taken from me, but nothing came.

It was Rafferty’s voice that pulled me back to reality.

“Arabella?”

“I’m in the attic,” I yelled down to him.

I heard his footsteps on the stairs as he came up to the attic. He stopped in the entryway when he saw me sitting there, probably tear-streaked and definitely still clutching the card to my chest.

“Arabella? What is it?”

“My mother.”

Rafferty crossed the room, crouching beside me and picking up one of the envelopes and looking at the name and address. “Sally Collins. These were from your mom?”

“Birthday cards,” I managed, my voice breaking. “They came every year, but he kept them from me. They were all unopened.”

“Why would he keep them?” Rafferty muttered under his breath.

“He tied them up with that ribbon and put them in this box. I can’t understand it.”

I handed him the card in my hand. “This is the last one. It explains why she left.” I found the one she’d sent on my seventeenth birthday and handed it to him. “But read this one first. It explains why she married the bastard in the first place. He’s a predator. She was only sixteen.”

He sat beside me and opened the card she’d sent on my seventeenth birthday, then read the last one. His expression changed from sadness to anger, his neck flushing red. Then he raised his gaze to mine. “No one looked after her. They should have protected her from him. She was sixteen. My God.” He rubbed his cheeks as if he wanted to wake a muscle. “And then he pushed her down the stairs. Her addiction was because of him.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know.” I started to cry again.

Rafferty pulled me onto his lap and held me, his chin placed atop my head. Despite my grief, I could practically hear his mind sorting over what he’d just learned. “Do you want to try to reach her? We can try calling the number she wrote down. Just to see if anyone answers?”

“I don’t know if I’m ready.” I needed time to process everything and to come to terms with the facts. In addition, I needed to prepare myself. She might not still be alive. “If she’s moved or changed her number or…whatever…I don’t know if I can face the disappointment.”

He stroked my hair. “Whatever you want, baby. Whenever you want, this is nearly impossible to take in.”

“There’s more stuff in there,” I said. “In the box. Will you help me look?”

“Yes, let’s do it together.”

Together. Rafferty was here for me. No matter what I found inside.