Page 82 of The Version You Hide

“You can’t blame yourself for that. She had a choice. She could have told you.”

“But I do. I blame myself for her not feeling comfortable to come home and tell me about you,” she replies earnestly, looking back up to the painting on the wall. “If I’d have been paying attention, I would have been able to see that this painting was a cry for help.”

I track her gaze to the canvas, my own eyes now seeing it in a new light. After hearing her explanation, I can only see the sadness in it. “How did you find out about me then?”

“She came home when she got sick. She stayed with me in the weeks leading up to her passing. When she was nearing the end, she gave me an envelope with strict instructions not to open it until after she was gone. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t honoured that wish, but there’s no point in dwelling on the ‘what ifs’.”

She rises from the chair, wandering over to the set of drawers and retrieves a wrinkled sheet of A4 notepad paper. My heart jolts at the sight of the shaky script scrawled across its lines as she hands it to me.

I don’t want to read it. I’m not ready to know what it says, but I can’t look away.

Dear Mum,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer here. I know we’ve always had our differences. I haven’t always been the best daughter. I’ve made countless mistakes throughout my life that I wish I could take back, my biggest regret being that I never shared with you my greatest achievement.

Her name is Mackenzie. And she is your granddaughter.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that you were a grandmother sooner, that I kept her hidden for so long. I did it out of selfishness, because by admitting to you that she exists, I also need to admit that I failed as a mother.

I’m writing this letter to you in the hopes that you will find her. It’s my dying wish for you to connect with her because you deserve to know her. And she deserves to know you, because any kid would be lucky to have you as their grandmother.

I love you, Mum. You were the best mother I could have asked for.

I’m sorry I never said that enough.

Love always,

Beth

PS: She lives at 23 Woodville Road, Coledale.

The letter drops from my hands, some of the words partly smudged by the lone tear that’s trickled down the page.

“She told you to find me. That’s why you were watching me by the river,” I say, sniffling.

“I went to the address she gave me, but the house was abandoned. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to find you after that. I had no idea where to look. And then one night, I heard them say your name on tv in a news report. When I saw your photo flash up on the screen, I knew. You look just like her.”

“I do?” I ask.

She nods, reaching into the envelope and pulling out a tattered photograph. “She left me this too.”

I take it with trembling hands. Tears obscure my vision as I look down at the picture. A happy toddler with bright blonde hair and big blue eyes sitting in the lap of a young woman, not much older than I am now. Her long blonde ringlets hang down past her shoulders, the smile she wears signifying happiness, but there is trouble brewing within her eyes.

This is my mother. This is the woman that brought me into this world and then left me to fend for myself. Now that she’s gone, I know I should feel sad, and I do, but I’m still so angry about her abandonment. In a way it feels as though she’s left me twice now.

“I know this is a lot for you to process,” Grace says. “It’s a lot for me too. I want to be a part of your life, Mackenzie, but I understand if you don’t want me to be. I’m so glad I got to meet you. I know you’ve been through so much in your young life, but I also know you’re going to be okay. You’re strong. Just like she was.”

It's utterly surreal, yet bittersweet to hear Grace make comparisons between my mother and I. Knowing my strength is something I have in common with her sends a rush of comfort through me. I’d always wanted to know where I came from, but I have to wonder about all the bad traits I may have inherited too.

Grace is right. This has all been so much to process, but I am grateful that she entered my life.

“I’m glad you found me,” I say, placing the photograph gently down on the table in front of me. “So, do I have a grandfather floating around somewhere?”

“Not anymore,” she answers with a sad smile. “He left this world when your mother was still a teenager.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. He would have loved to have met you.” She reaches across the table to give my hand a squeeze. “But you do have a great aunt. My sister lives about an hour away from here.”

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