One quiet evening, as my mother and I engaged in a conversation about the existence of ghosts and the beliefs that surround them, she decided to share a personal story with me. It was a tale from years gone by, a story of love and despair that had left an indelible mark on her heart.
In those distant days of my mother’s early adulthood, her life was woven with threads of love and discord. She and my father faced turbulent times, primarily because of his mother’s vehement disapproval of their union. The tension simmered, casting a pall over their relationship.
One fateful day, my mother, unable to locate my father, grew increasingly anxious. Desperation led her to seek answers from his mother, the very woman who harbored so much resentment. With a heavy heart and determined resolve, she crossed the threshold of my grandmother’s home.
Words exchanged were sharp and bitter. My grandmother’s anger spilled forth as she declared, “He’s gone away from you! For good, and that’s all I have to say to you.” With a resounding slam, the door to her son’s childhood home sealed the fate of my mother’s fragile heart. It was a devastating verdict, and weeks passed, each one heavier than the last.
In her darkest moments, my mother longed for the comforting presence of her own mother. In their days together, they had been more than mother and daughter; they had been the closest of friends. She yearned for the guidance and support only her mother could provide. Yet, both her father and mother had departed this world five years prior, leaving her alone to navigate her turbulent journey.
Amidst the despair, a glimmer of hope manifested itself in a most unexpected form—a dream. One night, my mother found herself traversing a familiar lane, the very path leading to her childhood home. As she ventured onward, she spotted a figure waiting patiently at the lane’s end. It was her mother, a vision of love and reassurance.
In the dream, her mother spoke to her, her voice soft yet filled with unwavering certainty. “Don’t worry about anything,” she said, her words an oasis of calm in the tempest of my mother’s life. “He has just gone away on sea, but he will be back shortly. Don’t worry about the kids.”
Awakening from the dream, my mother carried the warmth of her mother’s words with her into the waking world. On that very day, a knock echoed through her home, and there stood my father. His return brought with it an explanation. “I was in London with my brothers,” he confessed, his voice tinged with sincerity.
While there was no apparent reason for his sudden departure, my mother couldn’t shake the feeling that he might have been involved with another woman, a suspicion that seemed to align with his mother’s disapproval. Nevertheless, the dream my mother had experienced held an enduring place in her heart.
Even now, as I share strange occurrences and tales of the inexplicable with my mother, she fondly recalls that dream from her past. It stands as a testament to the enduring connection between mother and child, offering guidance and solace in times of uncertainty and despair.