It was supposed to be just an ordinary afternoon. A bit of spring cleaning, that's what Auntie Mariam had called it before stepping out to run errands. Tasha had asked if she could help tidy the back room, the one with the old bookshelves and cracked window. Mariam waved her off but didn't say no.
That room felt like it hadn't breathed in years. Dust coated everything. The light through the blinds came in tired and pale. We were sorting through piles when Tasha opened a small filing cabinet tucked behind a stack of luggage. One drawer stuck halfway, refusing to budge.
She knelt and gave it a strong tug.
Something clinked. The drawer came loose. Inside, there was a bundle of papers tied together with a rubber band so brittle it snapped the moment she touched it. Beneath it were faded envelopes, slightly curled, but unmistakably real.
The first one she picked up had a stamp from St. Jude Recovery Center, New York.
I saw her lips tremble. She opened it. The paper inside was worn, handled, and read more than once. The handwriting was loopy, a little shaky, but legible.
St. Jude Recovery Center
New York City
Dear Tasha,
I never wanted to leave you. When your father died, something inside me broke. He was my balance, my best friend, and the only person who truly understood how deeply I loved you.
I wasn't sick the way your aunt said I was. I was grieving. Drowning in it. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. But that doesn't make me unfit. That makes me human.
Auntie Mariam told me she was taking you for the weekend, to give me space. Instead, she had me admitted here. The doctors didn't ask questions. They just nodded when she said "mental instability" and "addictive behavior." I tried to explain, but they didn't listen.
Mariam is powerful. Wealth speaks. She paid the management. She made sure my evaluations said what she needed them to. Every time I made progress, a new report would appear. It would say I was regressing. That I was delusional. That I believed I was being silenced.
I miss you more than I can put into words. You were the one thing your father and I did right.
I pray this letter reaches you.
With all my love,
Mama
Tasha stared at the signature like it might disappear. Her hands trembled, but her eyes stayed on the paper.
"She did it for the money," she said in a hollow voice. "She took everything. Lied about my mother. Lied to me. Just so she could take over my father's wealth."
I didn't speak. What could I say that wouldn't break her more? She opened another letter. The handwriting was messier. More desperate.
My beautiful girl,
I've sent fifteen letters. Maybe more. I lost count.
Some have been returned. Some I think never left the building.
I started keeping copies. I write them twice. One to send. One to keep. In case someday I can show you the truth myself.
They say I'm not well. That I fabricate stories about your aunt, about your father's will.
But I remember everything, Tasha. I remember your father holding you the night you were born. I remember how proud he was. He never trusted Mariam. He left everything to you in writing. Not her. Never her.
Please believe me.
Your father would want you to know the truth.
She grabbed another envelope, this one with heavy red stamps: CONFIDENTIAL: CLINICAL REPORT.
Tasha opened it.
Inside were psychiatric assessments, some with signatures. But something was off.
The language was vague. Repetitive.
"Patient displays signs of unreliability, delusional thoughts regarding family conflict, and paranoid tendencies regarding estate matters."
"Continues to express fabricated narratives involving financial manipulation by her sister-in-law."
"Not recommended for release at this time."
Auntie Mariam's name appeared multiple times.
"Sponsor and legal contact: Mariam Wambua."
"All discharge plans must be reviewed and approved by Ms. M. Wambua."
Tasha's jaw clenched. "She paid them. To keep my mother there. She made them write this."
I found the original will, tucked into a file marked DO NOT DESTROY. Michael Wambua had signed it five months before his accident. His instructions were clear: full inheritance to Tasha, with her mother as sole guardian. Tasha looked like the floor had vanished beneath her.
"She stole everything," she whispered. "She stole my mother, my childhood, my father's legacy, and she made me believe it was all for my protection."
She sank onto her heels; letters clutched to her chest like broken wings.
"I thought my mom was some unstable addict who abandoned me. And all this time… she was trying to come home."
I sat beside her in silence, unsure if any words would help. I took her hand. She didn't let go.
"I need to see her," Tasha said finally, her voice low but steady. "I need to find her."
She folded the letters carefully, like each one was sacred.
"Everything's been a lie," she said. "Now it's my turn to find the truth."