Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will.  That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise.  I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back.  I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me.  I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences.  She had a team of private investigators keep track of me.  Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me.  When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t.  That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did.  That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story.  Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time.  She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me.  “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there.  But, then, nor was I interested in them.  They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners.  Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her.  I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point.  I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then.  This time, he had come prepared.  I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope.  “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not.  I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out.  I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded.  I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian.  I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now.  Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it.  It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there. 

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility.  Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology.  I don’t know.  She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel.  Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway.  I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write.  It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know.  I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed.  It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother.  I have no excuse and offer none.  Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you.  Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it?  Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you.  I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep.  And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters.  What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone.  I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral.  It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so.  The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page.  I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back.  There was nothing on the back.  She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing.  What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read.  I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.” 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will.  That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise.  I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back.  I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me.  I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences.  She had a team of private investigators keep track of me.  Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me.  When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t.  That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did.  That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story.  Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time.  She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me.  “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there.  But, then, nor was I interested in them.  They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners.  Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her.  I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point.  I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then.  This time, he had come prepared.  I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope.  “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not.  I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out.  I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded.  I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian.  I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now.  Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it.  It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there. 

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility.  Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology.  I don’t know.  She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel.  Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway.  I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write.  It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know.  I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed.  It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother.  I have no excuse and offer none.  Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you.  Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it?  Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you.  I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep.  And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters.  What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone.  I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral.  It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so.  The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page.  I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back.  There was nothing on the back.  She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing.  What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read.  I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.” 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025