“Why does Jean get new things and we don’t?” I asked Lily once, under the covers.
“Shh,” Lily whispered. “Don’t make her mad. She might leave, too.”
That was the fear that shaped us: that mothers leave, and love had to be earned by constantly being small, quiet, and grateful.
We believed we were the kind of daughters a mother could leave. It had happened once already, and we were terrified it would happen again.
We had no idea that everything we thought we knew about our mother’s disappearance was a lie.
The drive to Jean’s house felt different that Mother’s Day.
Lily had texted me that morning, “I can’t make it. I tried, but I have a double shift. Please tell Jean I love her lots, and I’ll make it up to her asap.😣”
“I’ll cover for you🫂,” I typed back. “Don’t worry! I’ll get a big bunch of flowers from the two of us.”
I picked up stargazer lilies on the way, Jean’s favorite. It cost $30 I didn’t really have, but Jean had stayed — that meant something. Besides, it had to be impressive enough that Lily wouldn’t get into trouble.
The front door was unlocked when I arrived.
I almost called out, but then I heard her speaking in the kitchen in that bright tone she used only when she thought nobody was listening.
I stopped in the hallway because I didn’t want to interrupt.
Then I heard my name. I peeked into the kitchen and saw her speaking on the phone with her back to me.
“… only Anna. The other one sent me a simpering message about not being able to come.” She laughed. “I trained them well, I tell you. They’re so eager to please, they’d set themselves on fire to keep me warm.”
A pause. Just long enough for me to stop myself from screaming. Then more laughter.
“Oh God,” she gasped. “I still can’t believe that not once in 15 years did those two fools suspect a thing. I keep thinking — how are they this naïve? And I fooled their pathetic mom as well. She has no idea that—”
She stopped suddenly and scanned the room. I quickly ducked back into the hallway.
“… that she’s been screaming into a void for 15 years,” Jean finished. “I made sure none of them even saw those letters.”
Letters? Our mother had sent us letters?
“She just had to be difficult,” Jean said with a sigh. “It was easy enough to convince her that Richard planned to leave her homeless and strip her parental rights in a divorce. Richard mentioned at work once that she had a history of depression, and I told her he planned to get her committed.”
I covered my mouth with one hand. Did that mean what I thought it meant? Had Jean orchestrated my mom’s disappearance?
“Those text messages you helped me fake were very convincing. She ran, just as I knew she would, but the letters started a year later.”
I wanted to throw up.
But more importantly, I had to find those letters!
“Honey, I have to go,” Jean said suddenly. “Yes, Mother’s Day with my devoted daughter. Pray for me.”
I looked down at the flowers in my hand. Then I looked up at the kitchen doorway, where Jean’s shadow moved across the floor, humming to herself.
And I realized, very calmly, that today was not going to be the Mother’s Day she expected.
My legs almost buckled, but I forced them to move.
I stepped into the kitchen with the brightest smile I could fake.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Jean!”
She spun around, startled. For half a second, her face flickered, then snapped back into warmth.
“Door was unlocked. I brought your favorites. From Lily and me.”
She took the bouquet from my hands.
“Where is Lily? She should be here.”
“She has a double shift and couldn’t make it. She sent her love and said she’ll make it up to you.”
“Hmm… alright. Sit, sit. Your father will be back soon, and the quiche is almost ready.”
“Actually, can I use the bathroom first?”
I walked down the hallway slowly, like nothing inside me was breaking. I passed the bathroom. I kept going.
Years ago, Jean had declared the hall closet off-limits. She’d said she was keeping her personal things there, but I suspected that was where I’d find Mom’s letters.
I eased the hall closet door open.
It was full of Jean’s things — last season’s designer coats and bags, mostly.
Right at the bottom, three stacked shoeboxes caught my attention.
My heart hammered as I kneeled.
I lifted the lid off the first box.
It was full of letters addressed to Lily and me.
I picked one up. It was still sealed and postmarked 12 years ago.
Another. Sealed.
Another, but this one was open. It was a birthday card.
Happy birthday, my beautiful girls! I hope to see you again soon.
Love, Mom.
A small sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.
“Anna? Honey, are you okay back there?” Jean called out.
“Yeah! Just a second!”
I dug faster. The dates climbed up through the years.
Then I saw it — an envelope at the top, the postmark fresh.
Nine days ago.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Jean’s footsteps echoed in the hallway.
I shoved letters into my purse, into my jacket, into my waistband, anywhere they’d fit.
“Anna, what are you—”
Jean stopped in the closet doorway.
Her face went through three expressions in one second. Confusion. Recognition. Then something colder than I’d ever seen.
“Put those back right now, or I’ll make sure your father never speaks to you and your sister ever again.”
All my childhood fears crashed down on me.
I stared at her, speechless, knowing full well that was no idle threat, and that if anyone could pull it off, it was her.
“I’m serious.” She stepped closer, voice dropping low. “Your father will be home any minute. Put those back, sit down and eat your quiche, and we’ll never speak of this again. This is the only chance I’m going to give you, Anna.”
The front door clicked open then.
Jean sighed. “Looks like your time just ran out.”
I panicked.
I broke off as Jean’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist. Hard.
“Anna?” Dad called out, his footsteps hurrying down the hall.
“Last chance,” Jean snarled. “Smile, Anna, or I swear to God I’ll have you out of this family by sundown.”
I looked down at her fingers, then up at her eyes, and I realized something: Jean was scared.
Dad stepped up behind Jean and stared at us both.
“Anna, what’s going on? These are Jean’s personal things,” he said.
“Thank God you’re here!” Jean turned and clung to my father. “Anna’s lost it! She started tearing through my things, making wild accusations—”
“I haven’t lost it!” I held up a handful of envelopes. “Dad. Look at the handwriting. These are letters from Mom. Jean has been hiding them all these years.”
His face went pale. “That’s Elena’s handwriting.”
“There are dozens, Dad. All sealed. All addressed to Lily and me.”
Dad turned to Jean. “She disappeared without a word, without a note… but you’ve been hiding letters from her all this time?”
“This one is from last week.” I held up the most recent letter. “Jean manipulated Mom. She convinced Mom that you wanted a divorce and were planning to ruin her and have her committed because of her mental health. I heard her on the phone, Dad. Bragging about it.”
Dad’s face went stony.
