When my mom died, I was shattered. So I wrote a letter to her and slipped it into her casket. I buried my confessions with her, thinking that would be the end. I was wrong. Five years later, I got a reply that made me question whether the dead can really reach back from beyond the grave.
The day my mom Polly died, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out and stomped on it. I was 25 and completely lost. Everyone kept saying she was “in a better place” and that “time heals all wounds.” What a load of garbage. Nothing about losing my mother felt better.
At the funeral home, people filed past her casket with flowers, photos, and little mementos. I watched them place their tokens of love and wondered if any of it mattered. When the crowd thinned, I pulled out the letter I’d written the night before.
My hands shook as I unfolded the tear-stained paper. The words looked messy and desperate.
“Mom, I don’t know how to live without you.” That’s how the letter started. It was filled with everything I couldn’t say while she was dying. I’d penned every regret that had been eating at me and all the promises I’d never get the chance to keep.
I’d signed it “Your daughter, forever” and slipped it against her cold folded hands. Nobody saw me do it. It was just between us.
“That’s our final goodbye, isn’t it, Mom?” I whispered, heading back to the pew.
Five years crawled by like wounded animals. I moved to Oak Ridge, got a decent job at a marketing firm, and even dated a guy named Marcus for eight months.
People said I was “doing better.” But the hole my mother left never filled. It just got easier to walk around it. I never told anyone about that letter. It was sacred. It was just mine and mom’s.
But one fateful Tuesday changed everything. I grabbed my mail from the apartment lobby, sorting through credit card offers and utility bills when I saw a white envelope with no return address and my name written across the front in handwriting. My stomach clenched.
Back in my apartment, I tore it open with shaking fingers and froze at the words:
“Mom, I don’t know how to live without you.”
Those words were mine, written exactly as I had penned them five years ago.
My knees gave out and I sank onto my couch, reading through tears as the letter continued like Mom was answering me. It mentioned my grief, encouraged about moving forward, and reminded me to find reasons to live because someone dear truly cared for me.
But the ending made no sense: “I worry about you and your father. Please, think of him.”
“What the hell?” I said to my empty apartment.
My parents divorced when I was 18. My dad William cheated with his secretary. Classic midlife crisis garbage. Mom found out, kicked him out, and never looked back. They barely spoke after that.
Why would my dead mother suddenly care about the man who broke her heart? Was it really… her? Or is someone else writing these letters, using Mom’s memory to manipulate me?
A week later, another envelope arrived with the same handwriting and the same impossible signature: “Your father needs you, Iris. Call him.”
Three days after that, a third letter arrived: “This is the last one. Please, reach out to him.”
I hadn’t spoken to my dad in five years, not since the funeral. He never made any birthday calls. Didn’t send me any Christmas cards. No “how are you holding up” texts. Nothing.
But someone was playing games with my grief, pushing me toward him. Then my phone rang.
“Iris? It’s… it’s your dad.” My father’s voice sounded rough and older, and I almost hung up.
“I’ve been dreaming about your mother,” he said. “She wants us to reconnect. Can we meet for coffee?”
Every instinct screamed “no.” But curiosity won.
“Fine. Mabel’s Diner on Fifth Street. Tomorrow at two.”
Dad looked like he’d aged a decade. His hair had gone completely gray, and his shoulders hunched forward like he was carrying some invisible weight. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.
“You look good, Iris. Really good.”
“Thanks,” I said, studying his face for signs of the man who used to read me bedtime stories.
We ordered coffee, and he fumbled with his words, apologizing for being absent and saying he wanted to spend time together. Part of me wondered if he meant it.
“I know I messed up with your mother. I know I wasn’t there for you after she passed. But I want to try now. We could have dinner once a week, maybe catch up on all those years I missed.”
His eyes looked sincere, and for a moment, I saw glimpses of the father I remembered. Maybe people could change, and maybe grief had taught him something about what mattered.
Then he leaned forward, glancing around the diner like he was about to share a secret. “Listen, I didn’t want to bring this up, but I need your help. Just $15,000 to close a loan. I’m in a tight spot, and the interest is killing me.”
My blood turned to ice as the words hit me. After five years of silence, he wanted money.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lied, forcing a smile that felt like swallowing glass.
Every month, I fed him excuses about work being slow, my car needing repairs, or rent going up. He kept showing up anyway, meeting me for dinners and weekend walks. Sometimes I caught him watching me with genuine affection, like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be a con.
Six months in, he invited me to his apartment. The place looked tired, filled with old furniture and stacks of unpaid bills.
“I need to run to the store. Make yourself at home, dear,” he said.
The moment his car pulled away, I searched his study and found desk drawers full of overdue notices and lottery tickets, plus file cabinets stuffed with financial documents.
Then, in the bottom drawer of an old wooden desk, I found my letter… the one I’d placed against Mom’s hands before they closed her casket.
The paper had yellowed, and the ink had faded, but those words were mine. When Dad returned with groceries, I was waiting at his kitchen table, the letter spread out between us.
“This was supposed to stay with her… in the coffin.”
His face went white. The grocery bags slipped from his hands and all the fruits rolled across the linoleum floor.
“Iris, I can explain. Please, just hear me out.”
“You STOLE it from her casket. And you USED my grief to manipulate me into giving you MONEY.”
He sank into the chair across from me, looking older than his 62 years and more broken than I’d ever seen him.
“At first, yes. I’m ashamed of what I did. I saw you put that letter in the casket, and I was desperate to know what you’d written. I kept it for years, and when the debt got bad, I remembered it and thought I could use it to get money from you.”
My hands clenched into fists as anger coursed through me. “You pretended to be Mom. You made me think she was reaching out from beyond the grave just so you could con me.”
“But somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted more than money,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “I wanted to really know you again. I wanted to try being your father, not just someone who needed your help.”
I stared at him for a long time. His shoulders shook and tears ran down his cheeks. But some betrayals cut too deep for tears to wash away.
I folded the letter and put it in my purse. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”
That was two weeks ago. I still have the letter. Dad calls every few days, but I don’t always answer. Yesterday he left a voicemail saying he understood if I never forgave him, but he hoped I’d give him one more chance.
I keep thinking about those months we spent together. The way he’d light up when I laughed at his stupid jokes. How he remembered I liked my coffee black and always ordered it that way at restaurants. The time he drove 40 minutes to bring me soup when I had the flu.
Maybe he really did want to be my father again. Or maybe he’s just a better actor than I gave him credit for.
Some nights I take out Mom’s letter and read those words I wrote in my darkest moment, when losing her felt like losing everything. But I did learn to live without her. I built a life and found ways to carry her memory without drowning in grief.
Now I’m wondering if I can learn to live with my father. Or if some wounds stay poisoned no matter how much time passes.
He used my love for Mom against me. He turned my most private moment into a weapon. But he also showed up for six months straight, even when there was no money in it for him.
I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if forgiveness is possible or if I’m just setting myself up for more heartbreak.
What would you do? Would you give a father like that a third chance, or would you walk away and never look back?