Growing up, Mom had one unbreakable rule: never touch her closet. I never understood why, and she never explained. After she passed, I came home to pack up her things. I finally opened the forbidden closet, but what I found there left me questioning everything I thought I knew.
I used to think my mother was magic. Not in the fairy-tale sense, but in the quiet, almost imperceptible way she moved through life — always graceful, always knowing.
A thoughtful woman | Source: Midjourney
Her name was Portia, and she had a laugh like chimes in the wind. But even as a child, I knew there were parts of her I wasn’t allowed to touch. One thing my mom kept private and stood out to me most was the closet in her bedroom.
Her voice still echoed in my head: “Never go in there, Miranda.” Not a suggestion. A rule.
And when I asked why — because what child wouldn’t? — she’d give me the same response every time, her voice firm. “That’s grown-up stuff. You’ll understand one day.”
A woman speaking to her daughter | Source: Midjourney
But I never did. At least, not until after she was gone.
The house felt cavernous when I arrived. I was here to pack it up, and every room was steeped in memories. My father, Robert, sat on the living room couch, flipping through a photo album with the same vacant expression he’d worn since the funeral.
“She was good at keeping things,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
A man looking at a photo album | Source: Midjourney
The truth was, I hated being here. I hated how her absence seeped into every corner, and how the closet in her bedroom stood like a ghost in my periphery.
“She wouldn’t want you fussing so much, you know,” Dad added, his voice a hollow echo. “Just pack it all up, nice and neat.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
A woman packing items into a box | Source: Midjourney
Rain pattered against the windows as I finally stood in front of the bedroom closet. I’d avoided this moment all week, and it had been easier than I thought — packing up the kitchen, the bathroom, even her bookshelves.
But this door… this was different.
Her bedroom had been a world unto itself when I was little. It smelled like her favorite rosewater lotion, the light always soft and golden. As I stood there now, it felt foreign, almost alien, like I was trespassing.
A closet in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
The jewelry box sat on her dresser, the closet key gleaming like it had been waiting for me. My fingers brushed it hesitantly, the cool metal sending a shiver up my arm.
“Come on, Miranda,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a closet.”
