[ WP ] A terminally ill mother wrote several greeting cards to her daughter for the birthdays/anniversaries/life achievements that she wo n't be there for . Her daughter opening one of the cards .

My dad was getting up there in years, but he wanted to stay independent for as long as he could. But even he saw, stubbornness aside, that keeping a house on his own was growing ever more difficult. So he had plans to move into a small apartment, a nice place where some of his other friends had retired to. That was good. Having friends nearby would ease the loss of the old house. In the meantime, I'd been coming up on weekends to sort through the estate, to help him figure out what he did and did n't want to keep. 
 It was n't a straightforward process, since every now and then I'd find something, and he'd have to stop everything to tell me a story. Normally, I did n't mind that. A natural born story teller, my father had a way with words that I never quite learned. My brother did, however, and you'd be hard pressed even now to find a better way to spend a quiet afternoon, when the two of them got to telling tall tales. 
 
 It was even better if my sister was around. She was a sweet, gullible thing. Add to that her irrepressible expressiveness, and you had the perfect audience. She would gasp, tear up, and laugh at all the right moments, even go all Bambi-eyed, too. Every now and then my brother would let slip a scandalous joke in front of her, just to ruffle her delicate sensibilities. Dad would scold him afterwards, even if he thought it was funny, too. It was the principle of the thing, really. He did what fathers had to do, and us kids had to accept that. 
 
 Most of the time, we got on well enough. Even though I'd occasionally get into fights with my brother, and kept threatening to beat up my sister's boyfriends. Dad thought the latter was funny. My sister did not, but she'd expressed her exasperated appreciation for it. She did n't seem to appreciate our brother making her the same offer, though, even if we both went to the same gym to train. My brother and I shared a fierce competitive streak that made us infamous at school. The smart teachers used that to keep us in check. The not-so-smart ones wrote carefully-worded letters to our parents. Dad thought that was pretty funny too.'So long as no one got hurt and we learned something- like how not to get caught the next time,' he'd say. In front of our goodie-two-shoes of a sister, if he could, too. Her face would turn the funniest colors. 
 
 So yeah, for the most part, things were good. But despite all the good memories, I'd never want to go back. 
 The answer lies with the one person in our family I've not mentioned thus far. 
 
 I do n't really want to talk about her, have made it strenuously clear that this is not up for discussion, but even I ca n't help wanting to when I find the little envelope of carefully written note cards. Little note cards with words meant for me. 
 
 The envelope is a faded old thing, but as I look inside, the cards are still crisp despite their age, I ca n't help but feel like I've gone back somehow. Back to old times, old memories. Not all of them are good. It's why I pocket the thing quickly, and get back to moving dusty boxes before my dad notices. I may be a dutiful daughter, but if there's one thing in this world I've earned, it's a reprieve from his wife. 
 
 Later, after I've gone to the safety of my own house, I'll take the envelope out. Only when the remaining members of my family wo n't see me will I risk it. 
 
 There are only four cards. 
 
 All of them are basically Spartan in design, and her tightly written, impeccable script as brief and cutting as I remember. 
 
 One for when she dies. 
 One for when I get married. 
 One for when I have kids. 
 And one for when I'm `` as good as dead''. Her words, not mine. 
 
 I have to resist the urge to burn them before I've properly read the things, even as my fingers itch at the contact, and my heart beat gets notably quick. She's long gone, and the most she can do at this point is throw shade via these little bits of paper. If only I did n't read them with her voice in my head. 
 
 The first is predictably bitter. 
 The second is cruel. 
 The third contains the usual curse that parents pass down to their children. 
 The last... I do n't do n't know how to react to just yet. 
 
 It's certainly upsetting. Unlike the other three, she actually writes more than enough to fill one side. I can just imagine how much that must have annoyed her, having to waste more ink than she wants to, especially on *me* of all people. 
 
 I wish I could have talked to someone about this. Talked to someone about *her*. I'm mostly certain she did this mostly out of spite, but then again... 
 
 There's no use trying to figure her out, now. 
 
 At least, she was able to admit for once that she blamed me for everything I'd suspected she had. I'm not sure it's really worth keeping this toxic memento for that, though. Honestly, I really want them destroyed, if only to ensure she does n't taint whatever more she could of the remaining good memories left to us. All the same, however... 
 
 They're the only solid evidence of harm that my family might ever believe. On good days, I can hardly believe those things happened, myself. 
 
 It's hard to describe what she took from us, when you look at how we coped. Most people would n't have thought twice about our family on the surface. My sister kept trying to date boys we never quite approved of, always looking for some Prince Charming or other to take her away. So long as her prospective partners had understood that they would do right by her or suffer the consequences, I tried not to care too much. My brother kept getting into fights with a bad crowd, until I dragged him into the sparring ring, where thankfully he found something that would get him into a good school. So long as he stayed focused and out of trouble, I tried not to get in his way. And dad... Well, I did n't want to unman him any more than mother already had. I tried to get him to help out at local shelters and after-school groups, community barbecues and local sporting events. Anywhere where he could kick back with friends, a beer, and tell stories. 
 
 And just so we're clear: I did n't resent my dad for this. He could n't, and did n't protect any of us from her. He should have, but if there's one thing I've had hammered into me for almost as long as I can remember, it's that when you've been loved, I mean *really* loved once, it's really hard to forget. That's not something you can let go of. You hear stories of dogs so loyal, they refuse to leave their master's corpse. People are n't much different. And who was I to tell my dad that he should leave her? He loved her then, and he loves her still. Loves her so much he would n't see the scars she gave us, the scars she gave *him*. 
 
 I think she hated me, because I was the only one she could n't lie to. Hated me, because she felt that I was getting in between her, and *her* family. Funny to think about, because hey, she was *my* mother, too. I guess some things they say about eldest children are true. 
 
 I'll admit, at first I thought I was doing the right thing, letting them have their ways of pretending. Thought it was better that only one of us got the brunt of it. I do n't really want to discuss how much it sucked to realize that in the end, it was n't just my dad who enabled her: I was enabling her, too. 
 
 I do n't think I'll show them though. Not yet. Maybe never. How the hell could there ever be a `` right time'' to show them something like this? 
 
 For now, those cards are going in a small, locked box in a bank vault. So I can just... deal with it later, I think.
