Home No Longer

The house seemed somehow smaller than ever.

I stood by my car, remembering all the other occasions I had been here. All the laughter, all the excitement, all the joy.

No more.

Because she wasn’t here anymore.

Mom had always been the center of our universe. She may have been slight of build, but she had a personality that filled three city blocks. Her smile had been infectious, her laughter enormous, and her capacity for love and care had been seemingly limitless.

When the diagnosis came, she refused to let it affect her. She still laughed, she still bustled around to the rhythm of that strange beat inside her heart and head.

Then, it was if her light just… switched off.

It was three months since that day, and the first time I had felt able to come to the house I grew up in.

Part of me just wanted to drive away, but I knew I had to do this – if not now, when? I wrapped my arms around myself (a phrase she used to use whenever she saw someone hurting) and, key in hand, walked up the steps and through the front door.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Although slightly musty, it still smelled of her. Mom had always kept flowers everywhere, and their aroma had infused all the furnishings. Running through that was her perfume. She loved – and always wore – just the one scent. And even though lavender had been a strange choice for a young girl, she had worn it throughout her life. As I walked through the rooms, pausing to run my hand over the backs of armchairs, or to read the titles of her many books, I was transported back in time, and half-expected to turn and see her sat there, smiling at me in that way she…

I stopped and looked at the bookcase again. Yes. One book was missing. The book.

Mom had always been very keen for me to read whichever books I wanted – except one. Always on the top shelf, there had been a slim, black-bound volume, which had been the source of the only time she ever – ever – shouted. I had put the book back and never touched it again. I never asked why, and Mom never offered an explanation. And I never saw her angry again.

But now it was missing, and I knew it had not been buried with her. I glanced around the room, in case it had fallen or been moved, but I couldn’t see it anywhere.

I started to get more anxious. The house wasn’t complete without that book. Somehow forgetting all else, I started turning over cushions, looking under furniture and behind shelving. I ran up the stairs and went through the bedrooms and bathroom, becoming increasingly desperate to find this one small book. Thoughts of the sanctity of the home slipped my mind as I became more and more frantic. The irony that Mom would have been thoroughly displeased by the state of the rooms was completely lost on me.

The book wasn’t upstairs, so I started again downstairs, starting with the laundry room at the back of the house.

And there it was.

Most homes had their heart in the kitchen, or in a family room. For Mom, her happy place was most certainly the laundry room. She referred to it as ‘the scullery’ as she loved old words. And there, on the small table next to the washing basket, was the book.

I sagged slightly in relief, and for a minute just leaned on the doorframe and concentrated on my breathing, calming myself and trying to bring my heart rate back down to normal.

Next to the table was an old wooden chair, and I dropped into it. Now that my mind was operating at a more normal speed, I wondered why the book was here and not in its usual place. Mom had clearly brought it here, but I doubted she would have forgotten to put it back. Well, I could sort that out.

I picked up the book, and was surprised to see an envelope underneath. Written on it was my name, in Mom’s familiar curly handwriting. I sat and stared at it.

I had said goodbye three months before. We had stood whilst the casket rolled slowly out of sight behind the curtain in the crematorium. Everybody had wept, then smiled and even laughed as we shared our stories of how Mom had touched our lives.

Mom never said goodbye to me though. The end came too quickly for that.

And now, I held this envelope in my hand.

It probably took me about a half hour before I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, and as I opened it, the scent of her perfume was almost overwhelming.

After another minute, I took a deep breath, and started to read.

“My dearest son,

I know how hard things are for you right now. I remember when my own mother passed away, I felt as if my world had ended, I loved her that much.

You helped me get through that time. Even though you were just a few months old, you knew when to smile at me and take away the pain, one little piece at a time.

When you started to crawl and walk, we both moved on a little. When you started talking, every single word was a comfort.

And as you grew into the fine man you are today, my life became complete again.

You were always there for me, and so, even now, I am here for you.

You always wondered what was in this book. The one book I never let you read.

It’s now yours.

Open it, and know how much I love you.

Mom xx”

And now the tears came. Real, sobbing, shaking, all-consuming tears. The sort only a mother’s hug could ever calm.

Slowly, my breathing steadied as I ran out of strength to carry on crying.

I put down the letter, and picked up the book.

Blinking a few times to clear my eyes, I opened it.

I didn’t know what I might have expected – a revelation, a confession, a mystery?

I saw hollowed out pages, and a smaller book inside. On the cover was a symbol and the words “First National”. A bank book. And on the first page, my name.

I thumbed through it and there were years of deposits there. Starting the day I was born. Every month, something had been added. Sometimes a small amount, sometimes more. But something, every single month for the past thirty-five years.

I flipped to the last page. The final deposit had been just two days before mom had passed. Even at the very end, Mom carried on giving.

The balance showed just over a million dollars…