Turning to My Aunt
It had always been only my mom and me. No spare bed. No second set of toys. No stories about “when you girls were little.”
That’s when I thought of my mother’s sister, Margaret. She lived less than two hours away. We hadn’t spoken in years. My mom and Margaret had never truly gotten along, and after my father died, whatever thin connection remained between them disappeared entirely.
But suddenly, Margaret mattered.
She was the only person left who might know the truth.
I didn’t call her. I was afraid she’d avoid me—say she was busy, tired, that it wasn’t a good time. I didn’t want excuses. I wanted answers.
So I grabbed my keys, set the photograph on the passenger seat, and drove straight to her house.
