One afternoon (about 2001 or so) I retrieved the mails from the box and began sorting them out. Mostly were junk mails. Then there was a plain white envelope with Dad’s handwriting. He called me a few days earlier asking me to translate some document for him.
“Sure, send it over.” I said.
He didn’t elaborate what it was and I didn’t ask.
When I opened the envelope and unfolded the letter I realized that I was staring at my Mom’s death certificate.
I felt something just hit my head right on.
Ever since she committed suicide on May 29, 1968 when I was 7 years old, no one ever sat me down and explained how, when, where, what and why. I learned a bit here and piece there, mostly from relatives and mom’s colleagues. Never from my dad. It wasn’t until I was in my late teens, did my family began talking about her death carefully in my presence.
I felt ashamed. Abnormal. Small. Worthless. Guilty. The depression has been my best friend. I wrestled with it for the better part of my life. I harbored the thought of suicide. I did not want to have children because I was too scary of not being there for them. Now I became a mom. I knew how much love I have for my children. And I knew there was no way that I would abandon them. I wondered even more how could my mom leave me.