she didn’t say much, just looked at me with those weary eyes, her face etched with lines of stress and sorrow. “It wasn’t what you think,” she murmured, but I didn’t want to hear her excuses. I stormed out, vowing never to forgive her.

Years were over, and I distanced myself from Mom. I managed to put myself through college, working multiple jobs and scraping by. I built a life for myself, but the resentment toward my mother never faded.

It wasn’t until after mom die:d that I found the truth. Cleaning out her house, I stumbled upon an old, worn-out diary tucked away in a drawer. Curious, I started reading.

As I could remember, my mother’s insatiable greed and frugality cast a long, dark shadow over my childhood.

It made no sense because we weren’t a poor family — in fact, we were far from that. My parents both earned more than enough to provide a comfortable life. My father, Henry, was a regional manager for a popular retail store. And my mother, Lydia, was a nurse. We were fine.

I sat there for hours, crying, clutching the diary to my chest. I had spent so much time hating her, and now it was too late to apologize, too late to tell her I finally understood.