She wished now she had held her closer longer. She wished she had snuck into her room more often. She wished, more than anything, that she could pull Hazel toward her and press her so tightly to her body that they would be fused forever.
But now Hazel was on a bus. Now she was going away.
Jane squeezed her hands around the steering wheel tightly and shut her eyelids for just a few seconds. She had always felt that loving Hazel as much as she did would be enough. That Hazel would just simply know the scale and intensity of Jane’s feelings. That Hazel would hold that knowledge inside her heart at all times. Even as Jane filled their home with new people. Even as she became a mother again, after it was just Hazel for so many years. But those expectations were unfair. She should have shown Hazel more love. With her whole heart and with her whole body and with all her words.
But now, she knew, she had to let her go. But only for a little while. Then, she hoped with all her might, Hazel would be all hers again.
But how? How could she do it?
She ached to know the answer. She needed to know the answer.
Jane pulled the car into the driveway and let her forehead fall against the steering wheel.
She needed to figure out a way to get her daughter back.
And right at that moment, right at that thought, Susie’s book called to her from the passenger-side door.
The journal felt heavier in her hands as she lifted it up than she remembered it feeling when Susie gave it to her.
Jane pulled her fingertips over the leather and opened the cover to reveal the first page. She read the words again.
The Mess Your Mother Made.
Letters to my daughter I may never send.
There was a gravitas to it. Jane flipped through the pages and picked out a paragraph at random from the middle of the book. Susie’s words were so earnest. So raw. So reflective. So human. So feminine. So motherly.
Jane understood every word. But not in a superficial sense. She felt them right down into her very bones. Right in her heart.
This was the answer. Jane wanted to, needed to share her story with Hazel. Jane would describe her journey to independence and womanhood, just as Hazel was embarking on hers.
This was how they both would heal. Herself and Hazel, as individuals, and collectively.
This was the answer.
She closed the book Susie had given her and pressed it into her heart. She felt so much love for Hazel in that moment. And for Susie and Eve, too. Their stories were so similar. They were almost mirrored.
Jane would write her thoughts down, just as Susie had. Letter by letter. Moment by moment.
She pulled the car back out of the driveway and went to purchase a leather notebook of her own. Then she drove back home and, after putting the twins down for a nap, turned to the first page and inscribed it herself:
The Mess Your Mother Made.
Letters to my daughter I wonder if she’d ever want to read.
Then, before she composed her own first letter, she read Susie’s.
11
Letter 1
Meeting your father
Susie
Dear Eve,
I always enjoyed the life of an interior designer. I loved working with things I could touch and feel and connect with. I loved that the colors and textures of the furniture, and flooring, and tiles, and light fixtures, and accent pieces, and art could create the colors and textures of moods. Sometimes soft, sometimes sturdy, sometimes uneven, sometimes sharp, sometimes brilliant, sometimes harmonized, sometimes mismatched, sometimes calm. But it was always dynamic.
I loved walking into a new space and seeing potential. I loved closing my eyes, inhaling, and reopening them to a vision of a whole new space. I loved turning that vision into something real right before my eyes. I loved working toward a goal of creating beauty in spaces. And, I have to say, my clients loved it, too.
It was so much fun to source things to bring to their spaces. I could get into the crannies of the world and pull out something gorgeous. From time to time, when I needed inspiration, I could go to new cities or new countries to shops I’d never seen before and antiques fairs at the end of long roads my GPS could barely navigate to. I loved caressing the edge of a piece of furniture. I loved admiring a piece of art and imagining the perfect wall for it. I loved examining the quality of a side table and handling a piece of fabric between my fingertips.
About a year before you were born, I found myself particularly excited about the freedom and the newness to just go search. Your father never minded when I left and I really needed it because I was longing and aching for something my life so far would never bring.
Your father and I had learned that we couldn’t have a child. Many, many tests had confirmed it.
I wasn’t sure a childless life was a life that I wanted. But then I would look at your father and feel that just he would be enough. Every night when he came home from work, he would take me by the chin and kiss me so lightly on the mouth, and I would fall in love with him all over again. Sure, there were moments when I looked at him and saw nothing but shriveled vas deferens, clumsy sperm—some with death wishes—but those moments were becoming fewer and further between over time.
Still, I couldn’t just kick the longing for a little baby—and getting into my car and driving far away from my life distracted me. I searched for opportunities for those distractions constantly. And driving to little antiques fairs for work was the perfect one.
I came across the website for Box Designs at the end of a long meandering morning of clicking around the internet. I think you can guess who this website belonged to...
The webpage was plain and unembellished, but every single piece of furniture was stunning. I clicked through several pieces, inspecting the photos of each angle. Many designers photographed their goods in perfect lighting, with the perfect context. Nightstands with full bouquets on top. Tables adorned with full place settings of plates and forks and knives and spoons. But these were different. Just plain, straightforward, practical photos.
Every piece was made with rich, sturdy wood. Some had delicate carvings into the sides. The details had been placed such that you had to look close to notice. Nothing garish, but everything unique. I felt a magnetic pull to those tables and chairs and bed frames, and I clicked the Contact Me icon at the bottom of the page. I wrote with a directness of intention that I thought the person behind the work, a craftsman named Silas Box, would appreciate.
I said that my name was Susie Warrington and that I would like to see his furniture and asked where and when I could do that.
I didn’t fumble over a single word as I typed. I jammed down on the mouse and clicked on Send.
I paused briefly and stared at my screen.
Nearly immediately, a return message popped up in my inbox.