As I recall, my mother’s severe frugality cast a lengthy shadow over my youth. It was perplexing because our family was not poor. Both my parents earned enough money to live comfortably. My father, Henry, worked as a regional manager for a major retail shop, and my mother, Lydia, was a nurse. We were financially secure. However, my mother was constantly fixated on conserving money.

Her constant penny-pinching made me really dislike her. I couldn’t understand why Mother was so rigid, especially because Dad and I only wanted to enjoy basic pleasures. Dad was kind, compassionate, and always made time for me. He was my most favorite person in the world. His terrible death in a vehicle accident when I was seventeen devastated me. Losing him was like losing the only person who actually understood me.

After Dad died, my relationship with Mom deteriorated even further. I blamed her for everything—her coldness, her stinginess, and now, for separating Dad from me. Our frail relationship could not withstand anything else. But everything changed when Mom emptied my college fund. I worked hard, kept decent marks, and received a partial scholarship. The remaining expenses were meant to come from the fund that my parents had assiduously accumulated for years. I was furious when I discovered it was disappeared.

“How could you?” I screamed at her. “How could you take away my future?” She didn’t say anything, but gazed at me with tired eyes, her face carved with lines of worry and sadness. “It wasn’t what you think,” she said softly, but I didn’t want to hear her explanations. I stormed away, swearing never to forgive her. Years passed, and I distanced myself from Mom. I managed to get through college by working many jobs and scraping by. I made a life for myself, but my animosity for my mother never vanished.

It wasn’t until Mom died that I discovered the truth. While cleaning out her house, I discovered an old, worn-out diary tucked away in a drawer. Curious, I began reading. Reading the diary revealed a side of my mother that I had never known. The entries began when I was still a baby. She expressed her dreams, affection for my father, and hopes for our family. But as I went on, I discovered the reasons behind her frugality.

She had suffered with my father’s concealed gambling problem. She had been attempting to save every dime to keep us afloat and pay off debts that my father had accrued without my knowledge. She sheltered me from the hard realities of our financial condition, sacrificing her own ambitions and reputation in my eyes to ensure we had a place to live.

One item stood out: “Today, I had to deplete Cara’s college fund.” Henry’s debts have caught up with us. I could not tell her. She wouldn’t comprehend. But it was the only way we could avoid losing our home. “I hope she forgives me someday.” My heart broke. All those years of animosity, all those harsh words I’d hurled at her, were founded on a lie. She had been protecting me, even if it meant becoming the villain in my opinion.

I sat there for hours, crying and hugging the diary to my chest. I had spent so much time hating her, and now it was too late to apologize or tell her that I now understood. In that moment, I promised to honor her memory. I would forgive her, as she had always wanted, and let go of the resentment that had harmed our relationship. I realized how much she loved me, albeit in her own imperfect manner, and I regretted every harsh remark and moment of fury.

My mother’s diaries altered my outlook on my entire life. It taught me the value of compassion and understanding, as well as the devastating consequences of making assumptions. It was a lesson I wished I had learned sooner, but one that would stay with me forever.