“I don’t have to tell you this is a hard life,” he says. “It’s a lonely life.” He chokes up, which moves me because he’s not a man prone to emotion like this. “It’s a life of secrets, and she’s got more than enough on her plate already. Stress like that ages you fasterthan anything. I can only imagine what would happen if she ran for a national office.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s part of the reason why your mom didn’t run for US Senate.” He looks at me, and there’s something deeper in his gaze.
It makes me shiver.
He continues. “You’re a mom now.” I watch him dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. “And I have a promise to keep.”
I shiver again, rememberinga promise of my own. “What promise?”
“I promised your mother I’d give you something if you ever became a mom. Or, that it’d be given to you when I died.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, withdraws a small letter-sized envelope, and holds it out to me.
I stare at it. On it, written in my mother’s distinctive script, is her nickname for me.
Sunflower
I can’t bring myself to reachfor it yet. Instead, I look him in the eyes. “What is this?”
“You need to read it.” He sighs. “Like I said, politics is a life of secrets. Some of them deeper and older than others. They get deeper the higher you ascend.”
For a moment, I wonder if he knows.
We have about forty-five minutes before we reach the White House, but I have a feeling whatever this is will shake me to my core.
Finally,I take it from him and force myself to open it. It’s written in her hand, in blue ink, before Alzheimer’s started stealing her life a piece at a time. I wonder if she wrote it with her favorite pen, the one I gave her that she always used, the one that now sits in a pen holder on my desk where I can see it every day and remember her.
Sunflower,
As I write this, you’ve just graduated law school.Last night, after your graduation party, you came home and we shared a glass of wine and laughed and I have never in my life been more proud of you.
I’m writing this now because I was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I haven’t told you yet because I didn’t want to add extra stress on you or spoil your graduation. It’s only a matter of time before I can’t tell you any of this, however, soI’m setting things in motion now.
You claim you never want kids. I respect that. I know how life can take us in different directions than we expect, though. You might one day meet a guy who coaxes you to change your mind.
I don’t know the circumstances under which you’ve received this note. If you’re receiving it, it means I’m not alive, or at the very least I’m not lucid, because I’d be tellingyou this myself. The man who’s given you this note, or who you’ve just inherited it from, was personally given explicit instructions by me to present it to you himself if he was alive and you became a mom. Or to pass it on to you with an accompanying note from him upon his death.
I don’t know where you are in life right now, if you became president, or if you ever sought office at all and decidedto practice law. I don’t know if you’re still in Florida or some exotic locale and living an exciting life.
All I know is that I hope you are blessed and happy and fulfilled. And becoming a mom is a terrifying journey.
There are things I never told you, things I never could tell you. They are things you need to know, because they are key pieces of your past.
I’ve lied to you, Sunflower. AndI hated to do it. I hated like hell. But I had to do it. I did it even when this man begged me to tell you part of it, once you turned eighteen.
The first lie is that there wasn’t an accident—there was an on-purpose. The sonofabitch I was married to was beating me, lying to me, abusing me. He was a drunk and a schemer, and I didn’t know it until after I married him. I wanted to be a mom, an attorney,maybe even governor.
He changed after I married him, and made me afraid, terrified.
When I called in for work one too many times, a friend of mine was notified and he came to check on me. This man is important, Sunflower. This man saved me when I hit my rock-bottom and thought I’d ruined my life.
This man is really your biological father. He had even more to lose than I did, and he took a hugerisk by helping me. A risk in many ways. A risk that he freely offered to take, that I let him take, a risk I accept multiple layers of guilt for taking, and that I would do again because I got to be your mom.
There’s a reason I never went farther in state government—I didn’t want further scrutiny on my life. As of when I write this letter, you don’t yet know one of the reasons, and I will keepthat reason from you as long as I possibly can so I don’t add extra stress on you right now. The second reason was because of fear of discovery of a secret from my past, and this other man will tell you about that.
I knew I couldn’t risk it. I proved to myself what I needed to, I proved to you what was possible, and I know that I made good differences in our state. I wanted to leave you a goodexample, not a scandal that might taint your future by my ancient actions.
Hopefully, what I did with my life is enough to offset choices I made years ago.
I hope this man is still alive. He stood back and silently watched from afar, helping only when I would let him, and let a dead, drunk, abusive asshole take credit for giving you life. I want him to finally be able to take credit for theselfless love he’s shown you all these years. And he has. He’s been there in ways big and small, for both of us, while having to maintain a distance because the last thing I would ever do would be to harm him or his other loved ones.
Because of his sacrifices, Sunflower, I have you. You were my greatest joy, my greatest achievement, and the light of my life, baby.
I’m proud of you, and I wantyou to finally know the truth. I owe it to him. I owe everything to him.
And so do you.
I love you,
Momma.
