I wonder if nostalgia is always tied to fondness. I find myself drawn to memories that left scars, craving them for reasons beyond my understanding. Maybe it's not the memory itself I miss—but the version of me that survived it. The version that kept going.
How long has it been since I left? I try to count the years, but the number feels distant—just like that place.
It was winter, I think. I remember the icy wind slashing against my face, freezing the tears before they could fall. I stood at the bus stop with numb fingers wrapped around a cheap duffel bag, heart pounding like it might shatter through my chest. One step. Then another. And still, I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting her to appear at the door, screaming, commanding, begging—something.
That moment replays sometimes—when I'm brushing my teeth or falling asleep. Not because I regret it. But because part of me still doesn’t believe I left. Either way, I never looked back. Until now.
I read the last text again.
"Will you be there? I will wait for you."
A message from my sister—if I can even call her that. Why does she want me to go? I don't think I can set foot in that house again. The one I used to call home for so many years… until I learned what home truly is—or rather, realized I never had one. That no place ever gave me a sense of belonging.
I sighed. "I should go." As if saying it aloud would somehow solidify the decision I had been mulling over for the past three hours. And still, I hesitate. Yes, I should go.
Would my mother have wanted me to? If she were still here? She once told me she never wanted to see my face again.
Well, good thing she never will.
I chuckled—a bitter, hollow sound. It's twisted that I can laugh at this. More unsettling, though, is that I don’t feel even an ounce of sorrow. Why would I? There is no loss. I lost her long ago. Or maybe, I never really had her at all.
Another text interrupted my train of thought.
"Text me the time, I will send the driver for you."
I took a deep, shaky breath before typing a short "ok" and pressing send. Her persistence surprises me. I never resented her, but I envied her—for never being on the receiving end of our psychotic mother’s wrath. Maybe that’s why I could never close the distance between us, no matter how much she tried. She looked for the good because she never had to face the ugly. She lived the fantasy. She had it easy.
Unpleasant memories stir, a familiar unease pooling in my gut. If only I could close my eyes and erase everything.
“I need to pack.”
-----
I walk down the old street, the one I called home for years. It feels unfamiliar now, changed beyond recognition. I wonder if that house—that hell—has changed too. A chill runs through me despite the warmth of spring. It’s just nerves. But why? She isn’t here anymore. I won’t have to face her. It’s just a memory haunting me now.
I reach the gate. The front yard comes into view. A wave of memories crashes over me, and despite the anxiety clawing at my chest, a small smile creeps onto my lips.
"Is that you?"
The loud voice breaks my reverie. My anxiety vanishes the moment I see her—my only family.
Oh, how much I’ve missed her. I step through the gate, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes. The house looks smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I had grown.
Minnie stands there, framed in the doorway.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey.”
“You look... good,” she offers.
“So do you.”
Silence stretches between us like a tightrope.
“Come in,” she says finally, stepping aside.
I walk past her, the air inside the house stale with time. The same wall paint chipping off. The same ticking clock in the hallway. It’s like the place had been waiting, unmoved.
“Still have that old clock,” I say.
“Ma thought about throwing it out once,” she replies, closing the door. “But it never stopped working.”
I nod, unsure what that means, but somehow it feels significant.
Minnie gives a small smile. She fiddles, tapping her fingers on the showcase, like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “You can take your old room. It's still the same. I got it cleaned for you."
That surprises me. “You didn’t need to go through the trouble. I’m not planning to stay for long.”
“Maybe I wanted you to,” she says. “Maybe I thought it could hold you.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I just nod, let my suitcase thump softly against the floor. Minnie stays still a moment, like she’s hesitating, thinking what to say next.
“You should rest. The relatives will come tomorrow for the condolence meet.” For the first time, Minnie mentions it--now it feels real. Ma is gone.
I never saw her face.
Minnie understood. I think she knew — I had said my goodbyes a long time ago. Or maybe, there was never anything to say goodbye to in the first place.
It was just a body. A vessel for a voice that screamed and hands that bruised. The soul was already gone.
Ah, well. I guess she never had a soul to begin with. At least not for me.
------
They called it a condolence meet. But no one looked particularly grieved. Maybe just curious—to see if I’d show up. The people who didn’t really know her came, told us how sad it was for our loss.
Loss? I chuckled mentally.
Some were whispering, looking at me, probably saying what a disgrace of a daughter I am for never being there. Minnie came to stand beside me. She looked tired—and quieter.
“Ma hated flowers,” she said under her breath.
I let out a half-laugh, then caught myself.
“I forgot that” I replied. “She always said they smelled like hospitals.”
“She said they smelled like death,” Minnie corrected.
We both went quiet.
I swallowed hard. “I thought you were happy.”
“I thought you were coming back.”
That was all she said. Then she looked forward again.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Honest.
After everyone left, the house felt quieter than usual—not silent, just... hollow. Like it had finally breathed.
Minnie sat at the kitchen table, her hair pulled into a loose bun, a mug between her hands. I joined her without a word, the old wooden chair creaking beneath me. The same one I’d been tied to, more than once, for trying to sneak food into my room after being starved for days.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She got a mug from the cabinet and poured some water. I watched the tea bag bloom and bleed its color into the cup, like it was trying to become something else. Fascinating.
“So,” she finally said, “what do you do now?”
“Advertising,” I replied. “Brand strategy, mostly. I bounce around. Agencies.”
She nodded. “Sounds creative.”
“It’s… a job. Well-paying. I needed that.”
She gave a half-smile. “I’m a teacher. High school literature.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
She shrugged. “Kids make sense. Adults never did.”
I almost asked if Ma approved of her choices—but the words stuck in my throat.
Instead, I said, “That’s… good. That’s really good.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It is.”
We sat in silence, sipping from mismatched mugs. A distant dog barked. Somewhere down the street, wind chimes clinked like someone trying to fill the silence for us.
“You remember how Mom used to rearrange the whole living room whenever she got upset?” Minnie asked, not looking at me.
I smirked. “And blame us for losing things in the chaos.”
“She threw out my favorite book once. Thought it was yours.”
“I thought she was evil.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling faintly. “She was.”
What did that mean? At least Minnie wasn’t at the receiving end, right? She still got the mother—if not a loving one.
I used to think Ma was just mean to me. Just angry. But that’s too simple, isn’t it? Mean people don’t break their children for sport. Angry people apologize when they cool down.
I’ve spent years trying to name it. Was she sick? A narcissist? Bipolar? Possessed by something darker than madness—a hatred she never bothered to hide?
Or maybe she was just... empty. A hollow woman who didn’t know how to love, so she wielded control like a weapon and called it motherhood.
But naming it doesn’t undo it. Diagnosis doesn’t equal forgiveness.
I wanted her to be a monster. Because monsters aren’t real.
Minnie's faint voice broke my train of thoughts
“Do you think she was ever... right in the head?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” I said. “I think she was broken. And she broke us, too.” A short silence. “I almost didn’t come back,” I admitted.
“I figured.” Her tone wasn’t accusing but something in her expressions made me shiver.
What happened to her in all those years? What did she do? How was her relationship with our mother?
All these questions wandered into my head, but I couldn’t ask. I was afraid to.
But why? That hit harder than I expected. “I told myself I was protecting myself. That staying would’ve ruined me.”
“I told myself the same thing,” she replied softly. “Only, I stayed.”
My eyes flicked to her. “You were fine, weren’t you?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup.
I studied her. She looked older than I remembered—not in the face, but in the eyes. Like life had shaped her into something stronger, sharper, and more still.
“I’m glad you came back,” she said finally.
I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Me too.”
She didn’t smile, not fully. But she didn’t need to.
There was something softer in the way she sat. Less braced.
After Minnie had gone quiet in her room, I found myself wandering.
The house had a different kind of silence now. Not the tense, suffocating kind from our childhood—but the silence of a place waiting to exhale. Like even the walls weren’t sure how to act now that she was gone.
I turned a corner and stopped in front of the storeroom door.
The brass knob still had that faint green rust at the base. I remembered how I used to crawl in here with my flashlight and dolls, hiding behind boxes when the yelling got too loud—or just when I wanted to feel like the world had a pause button.
I pushed the door open.
The same musty smell hit me. Dust, wood, something faintly floral—probably the scent of that old toy perfume I used to obsess over. The single bulb flickered when clicked the switch on. Still worked. Of course it did.
The room hadn’t changed. Everything was smaller now, though. The rocking horse with the chipped paint. My toy chest. The sticker-covered toolbox I once used as a treasure box.
I crouched beside the chest, ran my fingers across the latch.
For a moment, I forgot to be angry. I just felt... small. And a little sad.
I sat back against the wall and let the quiet settle in.
Then I noticed it. A box tucked behind an old suitcase, half-hidden beneath a sheet.
Shoebox. Plain. A little worn. My name written across the top in familiar, looping letters.
Minnie’s.
I pulled it out slowly, as if it might vanish. Opened the lid.
Letters.
Each one addressed to me.
My throat closed up before I even touched the first envelope.
And then—with trembling hands—I reached for it.
“What is this?” I whispered, heart pounding.
To Sis,
From Minnie
I opened one, hands shaking.
Dear Sis,
I miss you. This house feels empty without you, like a ghost of what it once was. Or maybe it’s always been this way, and I only see it now that you're gone. I hope you’re happy wherever you are. I hope you’re safe. I’m sorry I never understood why you needed to leave.
Mom had another episode today. You weren’t here, but I was. And she was worse than before. The yelling started first—her voice so sharp, it felt like it could cut right through me. You know how much I hate her screaming. It makes my chest tight, makes my hands shake. So, like always, I ran. I hid in your cupboard. It still smells like you, like the old perfume you used to wear. I closed my eyes and pretended you were still here. Pretended you would pull me out, hug me, tell me it was going to be okay.
But she found me. She always does.
This time, she had her curling iron. I could see the cord wrapped around her wrist, the metal glowing, and I knew what was coming. I begged her, Sis. I promised I’d be good. But she didn’t care. She never does. The pain was sharp—hot enough to steal my breath, but I didn’t scream. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. If I cried, it would only make it worse.
At least this time, she didn’t leave marks where people would see. At least I won’t have to lie at school tomorrow.
I think she hurt me because I wasn’t good enough, because I made her angry. But I wonder if she would have done it anyway. If it even mattered what I did.
I wish you were here. But I’m glad you’re not.
Love,
Minnie
I clutched the letter so tightly the paper wrinkled beneath my grip. My palms were cold and clammy, breaths short and uneven. My chest tightened, each inhale a struggle.
How wrong I was to think she would spare Minnie. That she wouldn’t touch her.
It’s my fault.
My knees buckled. I couldn’t stand. It felt like the air had been sucked out of me, leaving behind nothing but emptiness and guilt. A sharp, aching pain spread through me—not just in my heart but across my skin, as if I could feel the burn she endured. As if my body wanted to carry her pain.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To wail until my voice shattered.
But no sound came. Only silent, broken whimpers.
A soft knock at the door.
I didn’t turn. I couldn’t. The letter was still crushed in my hand like it might disappear if I let go.
“I—” her voice was barely audible. “You were never meant to find those.”
I froze.
Her steps were light, hesitant, like she didn’t want to disturb the fragile silence holding us both captive.
“I wrote them to survive, not… not for anyone to read.” She paused behind me. “But I guess a part of me hoped you would.”
I turned slowly, eyes burning. Minnie stood there, arms folded across herself like a shield she didn’t quite believe in.
“You should hate me,” I whispered. “I left you. I thought you were spared. I needed to believe you were safe so I could live with myself.”
Silence.
Then a hand settled on my back—warm, steady, real.
“You didn’t leave me,” she whispered. “You left her.”
I shook my head, tears finally spilling free. “I told myself you were lucky. That you had it easy. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.”
She didn’t reply right away. Her eyes welled up, but her voice stayed steady.
“You were hurting. Just like I was.” She smiled, and it broke something in me. “After you left, I realized the gravity of what you went through. She needed someone to direct her anger at. I was there. I guess we both got our share of trauma.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips—half-joke, half-pain. That was Minnie’s coping mechanism.
I stepped forward, the weight in my chest unbearable. “Minnie, I’m so sorry.”
A beat.
And then, she stepped into my arms.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Her cheek against my shoulder. My fingers trembling on her back. All the years between us dissolving into the quiet.
“I never hated you,” she whispered. “I missed you every day. Even when it hurt.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.
She finally said, “I used to write them when I missed you. Or when things were bad. I felt like… you were listening, whenever I wrote. I found you closer.”
I looked at her—really looked.
“Why didn’t you send them?”
She shrugged. “Some were angry. Some were messy. Some... I just didn’t want to bother you.”
“You never told me any of this.”
“You never asked.”
She didn’t say it with malice. Just truth.
We sat in silence again, but this time it was different. Not avoidance—just quiet.
Finally, I said, “Can I keep them?”
She nodded. “They’re yours.”
I clutched her tighter, the sob rising not from grief—but from something deeper. Guilt. Love. Relief.
“I should’ve come back,” I choked. “I should’ve taken you with me.”
She pulled back just enough to look in my eyes.
“You’re here now.”
Three words. That’s all. But in them, I heard forgiveness. I felt it.
I tucked the box into my lap, and for the first time since I arrived, something shifted. Like a door cracking open. The wind chimes stirred outside, soft and unsure.
The house was still a graveyard of memories. But now, it held something else too—Something delicate, unfinished.
A beginning.