The Diary

Do you believe in ghosts? Do you believe that spirits “hang around” to watch over us? Do 

you believe in messages from the grave? Me neither. And yet, something so strange and 

beyond coincidental happened that has challenged that position. It came in the form of a 

diary, a journal, if you will.

It’s no secret that my mother passed in November. It’s been the theme here since I’ve 

started posting again. It’s also no secret that my relationship with my mother was, except for 

a few pockets here and there, non-existent. And it is also no secret that her funeral was a 

demeaning and humiliating experience for me personally. Although I’m glad I went to her 

bedside, I wish I would have skipped the funeral altogether 

After my mother died, I wasn’t offered anything of my mother’s. My children weren’t 

offered anything of their grandmother.  I wasn’t consulted about my mother’s possessions at 

all. I didn’t know anything about what was happening with her property or her possessions 

and just assumed this was how she had wanted it.  The funeral had made it clear that the 

younger children considered themselves the only children of my mother’s and that my 

brother and I were not welcome in anything having to do with our mother. I have to admit 

that that hurt. The funeral pissed me off; but not being offered anything of my mother’s 

actually hurt my feelings. I am a sentimental person.  I don’t care about money. I never 

have; but I do care about things. I care about old pictures, or a favorite cookbook.  I like the 

stuff that tells the story of a person, the small details of who they were and what they cared 

about. Hell, I would have settled with just the childhood pictures of me.  But, clearly, that 

was too much to ask.  Clearly, my mother didn’t want me to have anything, and those in 

charge were going to make sure that those wishes were “honored.” (See, Michael, I used 

the word “honored.”)

And then….something happened, something unbelievable. It’s so out there that you 

are going to think I am making it up, that I am exaggerating or just outright lying.  I am not. 

This is all completely true.  On February 23, 2017, almost exactly three months after my 

mother’s death, I received the following Facebook message:

today at a goodwill store I found a book called reflections of a mother's heart, what I found interesting is it was a diary of sorts that someone ended up in a goodwill store and I felt it needed to go to a family member. From what i can tell you are the daughter to this woman. I have tried to find family members on Facebook and you are the first I have found. Just wondering if you would be interested in it or her daughter Patricia Joanne would be, unable to find her on Facebook. It's such a poignantly honest story of her life. Not sure if she is still living but I would love to return it to her as well if she is still living. I lost a grandfather and the things they sold that should have been given to family made me sick and I just feel this needs to be in the hands of family and not at a goodwill store!! If you are interested or can help me locate other family members that would be I would love the assistance, thank you!!

  I have to admit that my first thought was it was a scam. I had read about stories of 

people who search the obituaries and then get in contact with family members for different 

kinds of schemes that always ends up with the request to send money. I assumed that that 

was what this was. There is no way something of my mother’s, something as personal as a 

diary, would find it’s way to me. And yet….

I did a quick search of the person’s Facebook page and found that they lived about 40 

minutes from my mother. They had normal friends and posts. They seemed a typical 

midwestern couple. It all seemed legit.

Now, I hate to admit this but I almost didn’t respond. If my mother didn’t want my 

brother and I to have anything of hers after her death, then that should be honored. (Look, 

Michael, I used it again.)  I also think a part of me didn’t feel like I “deserved” it. It should go 

to one of the others because I wasn’t worthy of something so personal. 

And then I wondered, why was this diary at Goodwill in the first place? Was it meant for 

me? Did my mother want me to have it? Nah, that’s hokey. That kind of stuff doesn’t really 

happen. This isn’t a mother-daugher version of P.S. I Love You. (I hated that movie by the 

way. Why? Because it was too hokey.) This is real life; and in real life when people die, 

they’re gone. There aren’t messages from the other side or gifts from the grave. There’s not. 

People die. The people left, move on. Period. End of story.  And yet….

I asked her to send a picture of one of the pages. I received this: 

This was real. The diary was real. I instantly began to cry. Hokey or not, my mother was 

making sure that I got something of hers and no one was going to stop her.

(I feel it important to note that about three weeks after receiving the diary —almost four 

months after she died — my brother and I found out that my mother did, in fact, have a will 

that she had finalized days before her death. In that will, she was absolutely clear that, 

except for a few items that she wanted to go to specific people, her estate was to be split 

EQUALLY among her FOUR children. Except for my mother’s diary, I have yet to receive 

anything, including information on where her belongings are.)

The Funeral

    Several nights ago, I dreamt of my mother’s funeral. Everything was exactly the same: family, church, preacher 

(yea, that guy), video collage, my Uncle Walt singing. Everything. But as the funeral was playing out in my mind, I 

was keenly aware that I couldn’t leave. I wasn’t physically detained but I couldn’t leave. I knew that I couldn’t 

leave. I wanted to leave. I tried to get the people around me to realize that I wanted to leave but no one would help 

me. And the funeral continued, exactly the same way, in all its ugly and humiliation. And I couldn’t leave. And as it 

continued, I was hit with a profound realization — the funeral was holding me hostage. It was like the line in Hotel 

California “… you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” 

As I realized this, I felt my mother. I didn’t see her in my dream. In fact, I don’t even remember seeing the 

coffin; but I felt her. I felt her watching the funeral, seeing all that transpired and got a very deep and definitive 

feeling that my mother didn’t approve of the funeral, that she was disappointed in the things that transpired like a 

parent is with a child that misbehaves. I very clearly felt her saying, “This isn’t what I wanted. Your hurt is not what 

I wanted.”  I felt my mother’s genuine apology for what happened and for the pain that it caused me. And I woke 

up.

I would love to tell you that that was a turning point for me and all the hurt, humiliation, and anger were gone 

like the wind, but that would be a lie. What I do realize is my mother’s funeral was ONE PERSON’s interpretation 

of my mother’s life. It wasn’t a celebration of my mother’s life. It was a showcase of one child with a sprinkling of 

another and a half a dash of two others. That’s all it was. 

My family, my husband, who I have been married to for 15 years, not 15 seconds, and who my mother loved 

dearly, was erased from my mother’s life. My children, who are biologically hers and who’s letters she clung to on 

her deathbed, were erased from my mother’s life. My father, who fathered half of her children, was erased from her 

life, while I had to look at pictures of a man who terrorized me and beat me so viciously he broke a belt buckle over 

my face.  My brother, who loved my mother with all of his heart, and his family were erased from her life.  We 

were erased for the ego of someone else. It was intentional. It was purposeful. It was disrespectful. It was malicious 

and it was a testament to the character of those who planned it. 

That’s the truth of the funeral. That’s how it went down. That’s what went down. Everything about the funeral, 

every decision, every detail, was not to celebrate the totality of mom’s life, but to showcase one who thought she 

was mom’s favorite. It was very much like going to someone’s wedding and the maid of honor deciding to outshine 

the bride.  My mother should have been the bride. It should have been about my mother. It wasn’t. 

But at the root of it, I can’t even blame those people. I can only blame myself. As cliche as it is (and boy, do I 

hate cliches), I am a firm believer that when someone shows you who they are, believe them.  And I’m not talking 

about misunderstandings or disagreements that everyone goes through in relationships. I’m talking about when you 

know what people are capable of, when you see their true character. I’ve always been able to see behind the masks 

of people and I saw who these people were from first time I met them. So it is my fault. I knew who I was dealing 

with; and  yet, I still gave them more credit than they deserved. 

I was also angry at myself that my brother was right. I hate when Michael is right. It is a bantering that he and I 

have with each other, where we joke about one or the other being “right.”  It’s the typical big brother/little sister 

teasing that we still participate in. It’s good-natured, silly and usually results in a lot of laughter between us. When it 

comes to our mother’s funeral though, I take no pleasure in the fact that Michael was right. In fact, it makes me 

very, very sad. You see, Michael wasn’t going to go to the funeral. He had been very clear about that for several 

years. Pretty much everyone knew that Michael had made a decision that he wouldn’t go. It wasn’t for malicious or 

ill-natured reasons. He didn’t have any hard feelings against mom that prevented it. It was just a personal decision 

and one that everyone respected, including mom.  He just wasn’t going to go. And then…I told him I needed him 

and he was on a plane.  I played the little sister card; and Michael, being Michael and the amazing big brother that 

he is, decided to come….for me.  It is something I will regret for the rest of my life. Not only do I wish I wouldn’t 

have pressured him to come, but I wish I would have heeded the advice myself. 

I didn’t go to my mother’s burial. The funeral was literally more than I could bear and my self-control was at 

zero.  More than that, I didn’t care to ever see those people ever again. I still feel that way. Not so much because of 

the funeral anymore but because when people show you who they are, you believe them. I finally believe them.