My Mom Suddenly Ended Up In The Hospital, But Just Before Anesthesia, She Grabbed My Hand And Begged Me To Burn Her Notebook

When Abi's mom is admitted to the hospital due to intense pain and a high fever, she is told that her mother needs surgery. Abi is ready to play the supportive daughter until her mother makes a strange request: that Abi go home and burn a notebook. What's in the notebook, and why is it so important?

When my mom came down with a fever and intensely sharp stomach pain, we both feared the worst, but we didn't want to go to the hospital just yet.

"Abigail," my mother said, leaning back on the couch, "let me just take some painkillers and rest, and if it doesn't get any better, then we'll go to the hospital. Okay?"

I nodded. I didn't want to push it because my mother hated hospitals. So, until it was necessary, we were going to avoid it. But things took a turn in the middle of the night when Mom's fever only got worse.

"It's time, Abi," she said, clutching her pajamas in agony.

"It's appendicitis," the doctor confirmed. "And I don't know how you've been coping, Diana. We need to get you into surgery as soon as possible. I'll have the nurses settle you in and get you onto an IV."

"When will Mom have surgery?" I asked nervously.

"Tomorrow morning," the doctor said. "We cannot put it off any longer."

I stayed with my mom, dozing off on the armchair as she settled in for the night. The next morning, when the nurses prepared her for surgery, I could see how nervous she was.

"Mom, it's going to be okay," I said, taking her hand. "They do this all the time. It's a routine procedure."

She nodded, but her eyes were wide with fear. Then, just before they took her to the operating room, she grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who was in so much pain.

"Abi, don't stay here. Don't wait for me," she said, her voice trembling. "Please, darling, go home and burn my notebook. It's the black one by my bedside. If anything happens to me, Abi, I need that book gone."

I blinked, confused by her words.

"Mom, what are you talking about? You're going to be fine. It's just appendicitis."

"I know that," she sighed. "But Abigail, I need you to promise me. Burn it. Don't read it or go through it. But burn it. When I come out on the other side, I'll explain. But for now, do as I say."

"Okay, Mom," I said, squeezing her hand. I didn't want her to go into surgery thinking about that notebook. "I promise."

Relief washed over my mother's face as she let go of my hand, allowing the orderlies to wheel her away.

I stood still for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Burn her notebook? What could possibly be in it that she was so desperate to destroy?

I knew that my mother was going to be in surgery for a while, and she would be in recovery after. So, when my curiosity couldn't be shaken, I drove home.

"What is so important about this notebook?" I asked myself as I drove. "What secrets is she hiding?"

I found the notebook exactly where she said it would be: on her nightstand, next to a pack of charcoal pencils and fine liners. It was a plain black book, bound in leather with no markings.

"Do I keep my promise and not open you?" I asked the book. "Or do I find out what secrets you have?"

Then, before I could stop myself, I flipped it open.

The first page took my breath away. It was a sketch of my dad, staring out at me with eyes so full of life it felt like he was right there in the room with me. I turned the page, and there he was again, smiling, his arm casually thrown over the back of a chair. Another page, another portrait. His face from every angle, in every expression.

"What on earth..." I muttered.

I kept turning the pages, faster and faster, until my hands shook.

The last page held a single sentence in my mom's small handwriting:

I loved you, Adam. Even when you didn't love me back.

"Wow," I said, sinking down to the floor.

My mother had poured her heart and soul into that notebook, capturing every detail of the man she had loved and lost. And now, facing surgery, she was terrified that he might find out just how deeply she had loved him.

"Goodness, Mom," I said.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't burn the notebook and erase all the love and pain that she had carefully put into every image. Instead, I carried it with me to the hospital.

There was no way that anyone else would show up at the hospital. My grandparents lived too far away, and my father barely spoke to us since the divorce.

When I arrived, Mom was still in recovery, pale and groggy but very much alive. I sat by her side, holding her hand as she slowly woke up from the anesthesia.

"Did you get to the book, Abi?" she managed to say.

"I did," I said. "But I couldn't burn it."

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a second, I thought that she was upset with me. But then, she squeezed my hand weakly and gave me a small smile.

"It's okay, darling," she whispered. "I just didn't want your father to find it if something happened to me. I didn't want him to think I was..."

"Crazy? Pathetic? Sad?" I finished for her. "Momma, you're not. You loved him, and there's nothing wrong with that. He left both of us when he chose to have that affair."

She sighed, her eyes closing again as she dozed off.

"I'm sorry I went through the book," I said when my mother woke up later that day.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said, reaching for a glass of water. "I didn't want you to know because you were also so hurt by him. I didn't want anyone to know. It was just my way of coping."

I nodded. I tried to find the right words, but nothing felt right in my mouth.

"Those drawings are incredible, Mom," I said. "The way you captured him was something else. It's like he was right there, in front of me."

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she winced in pain.

"I spent hours on those, Abi," she said. "After he left, I couldn't stop thinking about him. But I read about writing down grief and pain. I found out that I couldn't write it, but I could draw it. I don't think the pain has left. But it has made a difference."

"It's okay to hurt," I said. "It's okay to feel everything you felt, Mom. I mean, you loved him since you were what? Eighteen? That's not something to be ashamed of."

"I was so scared," she confessed, "that if I didn't make it through the surgery, he might find that notebook. And I couldn't bear the thought of him knowing how much I still cared, even after everything."

"He's not going to find out about it, Mom," I promised. "When you're out of here, you can decide what to do about the notebook. But as for now? It's just a secret between the two of us."

She smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said. "That means more to me than you know. Now, can you get me some jello or something? I need to get this metallic anesthetic taste out of my mouth."

"Coming right up," I said.

I left my mom propped up against the pillows in her hospital bed. I knew that she struggled when my father asked for a divorce, but I didn't think that her pain was felt so deeply.

At least now, it's out in the open, and we can talk about it.

What would you have done?

If you enjoyed this story, here's another one for you |

My SIL Demeaned My Wife for Being a Massage Therapist – My Wife Had the Last Laugh When Karma Hit back Hard

During a family dinner, Evan is forced to bite his tongue when his brother and sister-in-law speak down to his wife, Sam, for her profession. But things soon change when Sam gets an offer that she cannot refuse, all thanks to the reason she was belittled. Soon after, Evan's sister-in-law knocks on Sam's door, asking for her professional help.

Evan

Since Samantha and I got married, my brother and his wife have always been on Sam's case. She's a massage therapist and is insanely gifted with her hands.

As part of her volunteerism, she goes to a local old-age home to treat the elderly to massages. I think it's beautiful and selfless, but my family had other thoughts.

"Do you still work as a massage therapist?" Jill asked her when we went to dinner at Jill and Brian's house. They were celebrating big promotions at work and had just moved into a new house.

"I do," Sam said, twirling her pasta around her fork.

"But why? Not only will you and Evan never afford a house like this on your meager salary, but you also choose to touch old people. That's gross!" Jill sneered at my wife while she sipped her wine.

"I find my work incredibly fulfilling," Sam said, her composure well-maintained. "Helping those in need, especially the elderly, is satisfying to me. It's more meaningful to me than managing stock exchanges."

I clenched my fists under the table, anger boiling inside me.

I loved my brother, but since he and Jill got married, they had become insufferable. I didn't understand the need to belittle Sam.

I opened my mouth to speak my mind, but Sam put her hand on my arm, giving me a subtle shake of her head.

"I'm sorry," I told her in the car. "I should have intervened earlier."

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.