The smell of her favorite lavender, now just a ghost in the air, still catches me off guard.
**The smell of her favorite lavender, now just a ghost in the air, still catches me off guard.**
The smell of her favorite lavender, now just a ghost in the air, still catches me off guard. It was in her hand cream, her linen spray, the sachet she tucked under my pillow when I was small. After she died, I found a half-empty bottle in her bedside drawer, the scent already fading, like a whisper dissolving into silence.
I was seventeen, all sharp edges and closed doors, when she first got sick. Leukemia. The word felt like a physical blow, heavy and cold. My mother, who was sunshine and steady laughter, suddenly became fragile, her skin translucent, her voice a thin thread.
She’d try to talk to me, perched on the edge of my bed, her eyes wide and searching. "How was school, love?" or "Are you feeling alright, sweetpea?" I'd grunt, turn away, bury myself deeper into whatever angsty song was playing in my headphones. Each attempt at connection felt like an intrusion, a demand I couldn't meet.
I remember one afternoon, weeks before the end. The October light was thin and watery, filtering through the blinds. She was in her armchair, wrapped in a blanket, too weak to knit. She just watched me, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"You know, I always thought you’d be a writer," she said, her voice raspy. "You have so much inside you."
I scoffed, flipping through a magazine. "Don't be silly, Mom. I'm going into engineering." It was a lie, a defense mechanism. I was terrified of what she saw in me, terrified of the soft, vulnerable parts I kept hidden. I never told her I secretly filled notebooks with poetry, with stories.
I never told her I loved her, not really. Not with the full force of my heart. I’d utter a hurried, obligatory "love you" before hanging up the phone, or a quick peck on the cheek as I rushed out the door. But the deep, echoing love, the gratitude, the sheer terror of losing her – those words stayed trapped behind my ribs.
After her funeral, a silence descended on our house that was thicker than any sound. My father moved through it like a ghost. I tried to do the same, but the unspoken words festered, turning into a bitter ache in my chest.
For years, I carried the weight of them. Every milestone, every joy, every sorrow felt incomplete, tainted by the absence of her counsel, her quiet pride, her knowing glance. I imagined conversations, arguments, confessions. I composed entire speeches in my head, eloquent and heartfelt, but they never found their recipient.
---
It was a cold, grey Tuesday, nearly a decade later. I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to write an email for work. My pen felt heavy, useless. My thoughts drifted, as they often did, to her.
Suddenly, an impulse, sharp and clear. I pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery, the kind with the faint watermark she used to adore. I picked up a good pen, the one that glides smoothly across the page, and started to write.
It wasn't for work. It was for her. I wrote everything. I told her about the poetry, about the engineering degree I eventually dropped, about the small, independent bookstore I now owned. I told her about the boy I met, the one who saw the vulnerable parts and didn't flinch. I told her about my fears, my triumphs, my small daily joys.
Most importantly, I wrote, "I love you, Mom. I loved you then, even when I was too scared to say it. And I miss you more than words can express." The words flowed, raw and uncensored, a dam breaking. Tears streamed down my face, but they felt different – not hot and angry, but warm, cleansing.
When I finished, the letter was several pages long, filled with ink and the faint smudges of my tears. I folded it carefully, slid it into an envelope, and addressed it to her. Then I walked to the mailbox at the end of the street, and without hesitation, dropped it in.
Of course, it would never reach her. I knew that. But as the metal clanged shut, a lightness settled over me, a feeling I hadn't known in years. It was as if, by writing those words and releasing them, I had finally spoken them. The ache was still there, but it was softer now, tinged with a quiet peace.
I learned that grief isn't always about what you lose, but about what you carry. Sometimes, you have to create your own channels for communication, even across impossible distances, to find your way back to yourself. The act of writing, the simple, physical motion of putting pen to paper, opened a pathway in me that had been closed for too long.
Write your unsent let
This story is part of the K-Will Stories archive — an anonymised, content-warned, candle-react grief-and-resilience collection. Reading: 7 min · Theme: unsaid-letters · Mood: bittersweet.
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