When Abi’s mom was rushed to the hospital with a high fever and sharp stomach pain, Abi thought she was ready to be the supportive daughter. But nothing could have prepared her for the strange request her mom whispered before surgery:
“Abi… go home and burn my notebook.”
What was in that notebook? And why was it so important?
It started the night before.
My mom, Diana, had been lying on the couch, pressing a hand against her stomach. Her skin was clammy, her forehead burning.
“Abigail,” she whispered, leaning back with her eyes closed, “let me just take some painkillers and rest. If it doesn’t get better, then we’ll go to the hospital. Okay?”
I nodded, even though my gut told me this was serious. Mom hated hospitals—she avoided them at all costs. So I decided not to push.
But at three in the morning, I was jolted awake by her voice, trembling with pain.
“It’s time, Abi,” she gasped, clutching her pajamas.
My heart pounded as I rushed her to the hospital. The sterile smell of disinfectant, the bright lights, the hurried footsteps of nurses—it all blurred together.
“It’s appendicitis,” the doctor announced after the tests. He gave my mom a look of disbelief. “I don’t know how you’ve been coping, Diana. We need to get you into surgery as soon as possible. We’ll settle you in and get you on an IV right away.”
“When will Mom have surgery?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied firmly. “We cannot put it off any longer.”
That night, I stayed beside her in a stiff hospital armchair. I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, nurses were wheeling equipment in, preparing her for surgery.
“Mom, it’s going to be okay,” I said, holding her hand tight. “They do this all the time. It’s a routine procedure.”
She nodded, but her wide eyes betrayed her fear. And then—just before they wheeled her away—she pulled me close, her grip surprisingly strong.
“Abi,” she whispered urgently, “don’t stay here. Don’t wait for me. Please, darling… go home and burn my notebook. The black one by my bedside. If anything happens to me, I need that book gone.”
I froze. “Mom, what are you talking about? You’re going to be fine. It’s just appendicitis.”
She gave a weak smile. “I know… but Abigail, promise me. Burn it. Don’t read it. Just burn it. When I come out, I’ll explain.”
I nodded quickly, more to calm her than anything else. “Okay, Mom. I promise.”
Relief washed over her face as the orderlies wheeled her away.
I stood in the hospital corridor, my head spinning. Burn a notebook? Why?
I told myself to leave it alone. But the longer I sat there, the more my curiosity clawed at me. By the time I reached the hospital parking lot, I already knew what I’d do.
Driving home, I kept muttering, “What’s so important about this notebook? What’s in there, Mom?”
I found it exactly where she said—on her nightstand, plain black leather, no markings. Next to it was a pack of charcoal pencils and fine liners.
I held the book in my hands, trembling. “Do I keep my promise… or find out what secrets you’ve been hiding?”
Before I could stop myself, I flipped it open.
And my breath caught in my throat.
The first page was a sketch—my dad. His eyes looked so alive that for a moment I thought he was staring right back at me. I turned the page. Another portrait. Then another. Him smiling, laughing, serious, thoughtful.
“What on earth…” I whispered.
Page after page, my mother had drawn my father’s face. Hundreds of times.
Then, on the very last page, a single sentence, written in my mother’s neat, small handwriting:
I loved you, Adam. Even when you didn’t love me back.
“Wow,” I breathed, sinking to the floor.
The notebook wasn’t just sketches. It was my mother’s heart—her grief, her longing, her love for the man who had left us behind.
I couldn’t burn it. Not after seeing this.
When I returned to the hospital, my mother was pale and groggy, but alive. I sat by her bed, holding her hand until she blinked awake.
“Did you… get to the book, Abi?” she asked weakly.
“I did,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t burn it.”
Her eyes filled with tears. For a moment, I thought she was angry. But then she gave me a faint smile.
“It’s okay, darling,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want your father to find it if something happened to me. I couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing…”
“Knowing what?” I asked gently. “That you loved him? That you weren’t over him? Mom, that doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. He left us—he had that affair. That’s on him, not you.”
She sighed, exhausted, and closed her eyes for a moment.
Later, when she was more awake, I apologized. “I’m sorry I looked through it. I know you told me not to.”
She shook her head slowly. “It’s okay. I didn’t want you to carry my pain, Abi. I didn’t want anyone to know. Drawing him… it was my way of surviving. After he left, I couldn’t write my grief, but I could draw it. It doesn’t mean the pain is gone. But it helped me breathe again.”
I squeezed her hand. “Mom, your drawings are incredible. It felt like Dad was right there in front of me. And you don’t have to be ashamed of how much you loved him. You were only eighteen when you fell for him. Love like that doesn’t just disappear.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “If I didn’t make it through the surgery, and he found that notebook… I couldn’t bear him knowing how much I still cared.”
I shook my head firmly. “He won’t. This notebook—it stays between us. Your secret’s safe, Mom. No one else will ever see it.”
Her lips curled into a weak but relieved smile. “Thank you, sweetheart. That means more to me than you know. Now, can you get me some jello? I need to get this horrible metallic taste out of my mouth.”
I laughed, wiping my eyes. “Coming right up.”
As I walked down the hospital hallway, I realized something: I had always known my mom was strong. But now, I understood she was also fragile in ways I’d never seen. The notebook wasn’t just about Dad—it was about her surviving heartbreak in silence.
And for the first time, I felt like we could finally talk about it.
