I Opened the Closet — and Found the Life My Mother Hid From Everyone (3 of 3)

I stayed up most of that night, rereading it. And while some of it was troubling — chaotic scribbles, obsessive thoughts — most of it was just sad. Elise wrote about feeling invisible. About being afraid of her own mind. About begging to be believed.

When I left on Sunday, I asked my mom if she wanted to keep the notebook.

She shook her head. “No. It belongs to someone who was never allowed to have anything.”

It’s in my home now. Tucked on a shelf between grammar textbooks and novels.

I haven’t read it again. Not yet. But I think I will.

Because here’s what I’ve come to understand: every family has its closets. The places we tuck away what doesn’t fit the version of the story we want to tell. Some things go missing because they were forgotten. Others — because someone decided we’d be better off not remembering.

But secrets don’t disappear. Not really. They sit quietly, waiting. In boxes. In closets. In us.

And sometimes, when the door creaks open, they don’t scream. They whisper.