The Weight of Lilacs

The house smelled of dust and… lilacs. Mom always had a vase of them, even when it wasn’t lilac season. She’d find a way. Stepping inside, the silence was heavy, a stark contrast to the constant chatter Mom used to fill every room with. It’d been three weeks since she passed, three weeks of phone calls and arrangements and forced smiles. Now, alone, the grief hit me like a physical blow.

The living room was exactly as I remembered. The floral sofa, slightly faded. The chipped coffee table where I’d done my homework. And there, on the mantelpiece, a picture of Mom and Dad, young and carefree, their arms wrapped around each other. I traced their faces with my finger, a lump forming in my throat. They looked so happy. Before… before everything.

I found a box of Mom’s things upstairs. Old letters, photographs, trinkets she’d collected over the years. A faded blue ribbon from a school sports day. A small, smooth stone she’d picked up on the beach. Each item a little piece of her, a little stab in my heart. Then I saw it. A small, leather-bound journal tucked away at the bottom of the box. My name was embossed on the cover. Curiosity, and a little trepidation, made me open it.

The first entry was dated the year I left for college. “Sarah seems so eager to leave,” she wrote. “I’m happy for her, of course, but I miss her already. This house feels so empty without her laughter.” My eyes welled up. I hadn’t realized how much my leaving had affected her. I'd been so focused on my own life, my own ambitions.

As I read on, I discovered a side of my mother I’d never known. Her fears, her insecurities, her hopes for me. There was an entry about Dad’s affair, the pain and betrayal she’d kept hidden for so long. “I don’t want Sarah to know,” she wrote. “I want her to remember him as the loving father he used to be.” That's why she never told me. She wanted to protect me.

Later that evening, I sat on the porch, the journal resting on my lap. The air was filled with the faint scent of lilacs from the bush in the garden. A memory surfaced – Mom teaching me how to prune the bush, her hands guiding mine. “You have to be gentle, Sarah,” she’d said. “But you also have to be firm. Just like life.”

I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I understood now. I understood her sacrifices, her silences, her unwavering love. The weight of lilacs, the weight of unspoken words, the weight of grief… it was all there, pressing down on me. But amidst the pain, there was also a sense of peace. I wasn’t angry anymore, only grateful. Grateful for the woman who had given me everything, even the things I didn't know I needed. I whispered into the night, “I love you, Mom.” And for the first time since she’d gone, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.