Chapter 122 MY MOTHER'S DIARY

Chapter 122 MY MOTHER'S DIARY


~ELENA~

I turn the frame over and my heart stops.

A folded piece of paper is taped to the back.

My hands shake as I peel it off and unfold it.

Her handwriting greets me. Elegant. Slightly slanted. Alive.

Elena, my sweet daughter,
If you ever happen to come across this note, I must be dead by then.

A sob rips out of my chest.

My knees buckle, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching the letter as my tears blur the words.

I am sorry for not showing you enough motherly love. I didn’t mean to—but I didn’t know how to show enough love when I couldn’t even love myself properly or understand what it truly meant.

My vision floods.

“I understand,” I cry. “I do.”

But just know that I love you so much. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m sorry for making you go through a lot. I am sorry for not choosing the right father for you. I am sorry for making your childhood miserable and sending you far away.

I am also sorry for forcing you to come back here and move into this house. I didn't know what I was thinking then. I'm really sorry, my precious daughter and I hope you can forgive me. I love you so much, my sunshine.

My breath breaks completely.

I clutch the letter to my chest, crushing the paper against my heart as if holding it there will somehow keep her close.

A raw, bitter sob tears out of me.

I cry like a child—loud, helpless, shaking…my shoulders trembling as grief pours out of me uncontrollably.

“I love you,” I sob. “I love you so much, Mom.”

I don’t even notice that there’s more written.

I can’t.

The pain is too much.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours, before my sobs are quiet enough for me to breathe again.

With shaking hands, I unfold the paper once more, forcing my eyes downward.

The last line stares back at me.

I have hidden my diary behind the false panel inside my wardrobe. You deserve to know the truth.

My heart pounds violently.

Diary. Truth.

I rise unsteadily and move toward her wardrobe, my hands still trembling as I run my fingers along the wooden panels.

There. A faint hollow sound.

I press, and the panel gives way.

Inside, wrapped carefully in cloth, lies a worn leather-bound diary.

My mother’s diary.

I pull it out, clutching it tightly to my chest as fresh tears spill down my face….not just of grief now, but of something else.

Determination.

Whatever she went through. Whatever she was hiding. Whatever got her killed. I will know.

And this time… I won’t look away. I'll have revenge for her.

I sit down on the bed and open the first page of her diary.

I swallow hard and begin to read.

The first page smells faintly of age and sadness.

Year one in school,

I met him today.

His name is Victor.

My chest tightens.

He smiled at me like the world was kind. He held doors open. He asked about my dreams. He said my laughter sounded like music. For the first time in my life, I felt seen.

My fingers tremble as I turn the page.

He walked me home even though it was out of his way. When I told him about my parents, about the inheritance they left me, he looked at me with such admiration. I thought it was love. I was young. I was foolish. I wanted to be loved.

Tears drip onto the paper.

He brought flowers. He wrote me notes. He told me I was beautiful even on days I felt invisible. I believed him when he said I was his world. I believed I had found the love of my life.

I close my eyes briefly, pain squeezing my heart.
Then I read on.

We got married.

The handwriting grows tighter. My breath stutters

The man I married is not the man I met.

He changed. Slowly at first. His voice hardened. His smiles disappeared. He started asking about my money more often. How much was left. Where it was kept. I didn’t question it. A wife shouldn’t doubt her husband, right?

My hands shake violently now.

One night, I overheard him laughing on the phone. He said marrying me was the easiest decision of his life. That I was stupid. That my money would last him years.

A sob escapes me. The words blur through my tears.

He took everything.

The house. The accounts. The savings. All gone. Spent on alcohol. Gambling. Other women. We went from comfort to poverty so fast it felt like falling down a pit with no end.

I turn the page, dread pooling in my stomach.

When I confronted him, he slapped me.

My heart stops. My breathing turns shallow.

The first time hurt the most—not because of the pain, but because I realized no one was coming to save me.

After that, it became routine. Fists. Kicks. Words sharper than knives. Some nights he came home drunk and forced himself on me while I cried into the pillow, praying for it to end.

My vision whites out. I clutch the diary, my body trembling.

Then I found out I was pregnant.

I gasp. Tears soak the pages

I screamed. I cried. I vomited. I did not want to bring a child into this world for a man like him. I hated myself for it. I hated my body for betraying me.

But I had no choice.
I carried the pregnancy through hunger. Through bruises. Through nights where I didn’t eat because there was nothing to eat. I worked when I could. I begged when I had to. I protected my belly with my arms every time he raised his hand.

My chest feels like it’s being crushed.

When the pain became unbearable, I told myself one thing: survive.

I turn the page with shaking fingers.

I gave birth alone.
A strangled sound leaves my throat.
He didn’t come to the hospital. He didn’t answer my calls. I stayed there for days, afraid they would throw me out because I couldn’t pay. A stranger—a woman I will never forget—paid my bills. She said no woman should suffer alone.

Hot tears stream down my face.

Victor only came home after I was discharged. He held the baby once. Looked at her like she was nothing. Then he left again.

I hug myself, rocking slightly.

Life after that was misery.
I looked at my daughter and all I could see was him. His face. His cruelty. His blood in her veins. I hated myself for feeling that way.

My sobs grow louder.

I became cold. I became distant. I drank to forget. I stayed out late to avoid home. I neglected my child and fought with my husband whenever I returned. Screaming was easier than feeling. Numbness was easier than love.

My heart breaks completely. None of it was her fault. None of it.

I press a hand to my mouth as a broken cry rips through me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

Now I understand.

Why her touch was distant. Why her eyes were cold. Why love always felt just out of reach.

Because imagine giving birth for someone who wasn’t worth it.

Because imagine surviving hell and being reminded of it every day.

My mother suffered.

And I mistook her survival for cruelty.

I curl into myself on the bed, crying harder than I ever have before—grief tangled with guilt, anger, and understanding.

“I see you now,” I sob into the silence. “I see everything.”

And for the first time, I don’t just mourn my mother.
I mourn the woman she never got to be.

And then, I wipe my tears and continue reading….