Guiding my car down the long, spiraling private driveway to my father’s ancestral home in upstate New York, I held my breath. I just couldn’t shake the venomous words Debra had spat at me at my father’s funeral. I’d put this moment off for over eighteen months telling myself everything she’d said had been a lie.

But something told me that she wasn’t lying. I had been denying that my father could’ve kept her letters from me long enough. I had a gut feeling that she had been telling the truth. There had been something in her eyes. Maybe it was just the hint of the mother of my past lurking beneath them, but I sensed there was something there worth investigating.

Now, I was about to call upon the ghosts of the past. I was going to throw open my father’s attic and delve deep into its’ depths.

Walking up to the imposing structure, I searched for the antique brass keys. As I opened the massive doors with a loud squeak, I immediately noticed the enormous crystal chandelier decorated with cobwebs. My shoes squeaked on the marble entranceway echoing throughout the mansion. I marveled at how dusty the house had become. It had been well over a year since anyone had entered the home.

Running my fingers across the balustrade as I ascended the spiraling staircase, I felt myself falling back through time. I vividly recalled my childhood racing up these stairs with my father.

As I walked towards my old room, I opened the door. It was just as I had left it when I moved out twenty four years ago. I imagined if I looked beneath the bed I’d find that old train set. Running my hands along the bookshelves, I came upon my old yearbooks. Flipping through the pages quickly, I laughed looking at the pictures of my old friends. I’d been so full of hopes and dreams then. Where had they all gone? Was I living my dreams now just because I’d substantially increased the fortune my father had left to me? Or had greed choked the life out of my real dreams of becoming a firefighter and helping people?

Shaking my head, I replaced the yearbook back on the shelf. Making a mental note to myself to have someone come and box everything up and place it into storage, I made my way to the attic stairway.

I felt the darkness begin to close in all around me. A deep, black depression had me firmly in its’ jaws. I couldn’t shake the feeling of ominous doom. As I climbed the spiraling staircase that reached into my father’s attic, I felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach.

Walking into the attic, I immediately found myself covered in dust. I brushed the dust from my shirt vigorously. I wondered for the hundredth time if this was such a good idea. Did I really want to know if my father had kept my mother’s letters from me?

The attic was so huge it was a maze. Everywhere I looked there were boxes stacked one on top of the other. Some were so old they looked as if they would crumble if I touched them. The house had been built around the turn of the century and all around me I could hear the ghosts of my ancestors’ past wailing as I threw open box after box.

Then, I came upon a box marked ‘Ash’. Perhaps what I was looking for was in here. Prying open the box, I sifted through its’ contents. There was nothing but old crayon drawings I’d done as a child. At the bottom, there lay a blue envelope.

I knew what it was before I opened it. My naval discharge papers. I slid the paper out and looked at it recalling how proud my father had been. Initially, he’d been against my joining the military. Considering how he’d been drafted for the Vietnam War and the horrible atrocities he’d experienced there, I could understand his distaste for the military. But there had more to his being against my enlistment.

He’d always wanted me to join him at helm of his company.

And I never did.

I shook my head replacing the paper back into the envelope. Just another one of the many ways I’d disappointed my father.

As I looked around the attic, I chuckled to myself at what a bunch of hoarders my great grandfather, grandfather and father had been. Apparently, they threw nothing away. Perhaps they believed that their success was fleeting and they may need to call upon old resources to survive. Coughing as the dust cloud around me grew, I turned to see a huge wooden crate. There were no other crates in the attic like it. Something was strange about it. I looked around for something to use to pry it open. Spying an old, rusted iron tool in the corner, I thrust the handle beneath the lock. After several minutes of struggling, the old crate finally creaked open with a sigh.

Several items had been carefully placed inside it wrapped in stained, crumpled tissue paper. Quickly, I unwrapped one to see it was an old jewelry box. Inside was an inscription.

Debra.

These were my mother’s belongings. The ones she must’ve forgotten when she left us thirty years ago.

My rage began to build as I searched through piles of old clothes. Finally, at the bottom of the box was an old faded pink shoebox.

Assuming it merely contained an old pair of her shoes, I tossed it aside. As it fell, the top flew off the box revealing a stack of letters and cards bound with a rubber band.

Bending down to retrieve them, I turned the stack over in my hand. My mouth dropped open.

They were all addressed to me!

She hadn’t been lying.

I flipped through the stack. There were, indeed, cards postmarked around my birthday every year. As I counted them, there were eleven of them. There was one for each birthday she’d missed until I was eighteen. I ran my fingers over the tops of each smooth envelope. They had never been opened.

Sickened, I realized my father had deliberately kept them from me.

Why?

As much as I loved my father, I couldn’t understand why he’d do that. Perhaps he believed he’d been protecting me, but I still couldn’t fathom after all the days, weeks, and months I’d spent crying over her he wouldn’t have given me something that would’ve let me know she still loved me.

Sinking down to the hardwood floor, I poured over her letters. In each one, I could hear the voice of the mommy I had so loved as a little boy. She was the same person still there amidst the words of her letters.

For hours, I sat there and devoured each letter. As I got to the end of the stack, her tone changed a bit. She became accusatory in her speech lashing out at me for not replying. The letters dated around my eighteenth birthday were particularly harsh. Something had been happening in her life around that time.

My dearest Ashton,

I don’t even know why I keep you sending these letters. I never hear from you. At first, I was sure your father kept my letters from you, but now I think it’s that you simply don’t wish to communicate with me. Ashton, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve done things that are reprehensible and leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.

I’m sorry, my darling Ashton, but I can’t keep apologizing my whole life for something that happened years ago. Your father and I simply weren’t compatible. I know he’s had his share of lovers since I left so you can’t blame me for not returning. He’s moved on and so have I.

Ashton, if you choose not to reply to this letter then I’m afraid it will be my last one to you. You will be eighteen soon so I fear you no longer need a mother. You were such an independent little boy I don’t think you ever needed me. You had Dora and your father I was only a playmate to you not your mother.

Ashton, I’ve moved to Chicago to be with Jimmy’s family. Jimmy is such a dear to me, such a blessing. Since I met him so long ago, he’s made me the family I always wanted and couldn’t have with your father.

I’m sorry, Ashton, but I think it’s time we say goodbye. If you want to find me, you know where I’ll be.

As always your loving mother,

Debra

She had also enclosed an address in Chicago. Leaning back against the empty crate, I sat holding her last letter in my hands. My mind was reeling. I didn’t know what to do. Who the hell was Jimmy? Was he her new husband? A lover? Some random hookup?

She mentioned a new family. Did that mean I had stepsiblings? In shock, I struggled to stand up. Shaking, I threw the letters back into the box. Racing down the spiraling staircase, I ran out to my car. Tossing the box of letters into the backseat, I took off back to my own house.

How could he have kept this from me? If Debra had been telling me the truth at his funeral, then maybe she was telling the truth about other things.

Maybe she really did love me.

But if she did love me, how could she have left me so long ago?

My rage was like a festering sore. The pain was throbbing intensely inside me. My search for answers had only left me with questions.

Why had she left us to be with Mike, only to be with this Jimmy? Was she still with him? Who was this new family?

Arriving at my apartment, I nodded to the doorman as I entered the elevator. Pressing the button for the penthouse, I held the bundle of letters. My hand felt as though it were on fire. Her words were burning into me.

Opening the door to my apartment, I tossed the bundle of letters onto the table. I looked down at the Chicago address.

I wanted to call her, but there was no phone number. The last letter she’d sent was twenty-three years ago. There was no telling if she still resided at the same address.

Still, I had to go there. I had to find her.

And do what? Apologize? I couldn’t do that. Despite these letters, she could’ve still called me or visited. Nothing excused her cheating on my father and leaving us.

My heart heavy I quickly packed a bag and contacted a private jet to take me to Chicago tomorrow morning. Then, I needed to call Amber.

“Amber, it’s Ash. Cancel my day tomorrow. I have some urgent business to attend to.”

It was after one AM. She sounded as though she’d been sleeping.

“Are you awake, Amber? I’m sorry to call so late.”

“Ash, are you okay? It’s after one AM.” Her voice sounded groggy.

“Yes, I’m fine. Something just came up…I have to fly to Chicago in a few hours.”

“On Mitch Whitmore’s jet?”

“Michael Whitmore. Yes.”

Amber paused for a moment. I stared at the packet of letters on the table. I could almost hear my mother’s voice speaking to me through those letters. She sounded the same way she used to years ago. I didn’t envision her as the ragged, deranged woman who’d shown up at my father’s funeral over a year ago.

“It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

How did she know?

“Yes, it is. How did you know?”

Amber laughed.

“I just do. It’s in your voice, Ash. I’ll cancel your appointments tomorrow. Just be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Where in Chicago are you going?”

I looked down at the address.

“Canaryville.”

Amber was quiet a minute.

“You’ll need to be careful.”

“I’ve been in rough areas before, Amber.”

“Just take my word for it, Ash. I’m from the south side. I know.”

“I’m fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Best of luck, Ash. If you need me, I’m here.”

I clicked the phone off. I really did wish Amber could accompany me. I could definitely use her moral support, but this was something I needed to do alone.

* * *

As the plane circled the runway in Chicago, I shook my head. I couldn’t believe what I had seen. My father had kept my mother’s letters from me my entire life. Why would he do that? I was so filled with rage I could barely see. Still, I hesitated before leaving the airport. Was I really ready to see my mother after what she’d done at my father’s funeral?

I got into the Mercedes I’d rented and looked at the directions on the GPS. I sighed noting the rough neighborhood.

As I drove from the high rises of downtown Chicago to a rundown area of Canaryville, I wondered how my mother had ended up here. She’d had everything when she’d lived with us. Our home was one of the finest in New York. How could she have abandoned us to live here?

I caught myself as I just realized that she hadn’t left us to move specifically here. She’d moved from house to house over the years.

Looking around, I realized if she’d settle for living here the other places she’d been probably hadn’t been much better. As I inspected the numbers of the rundown houses, I came to the right one.

Sighing, I turned the ignition off. I still didn’t know if I could do this. The house was surrounded by a chain link fence. Several unsavory looking men stood in the front yard drinking cans of beer.

Feeling distinctly out of place, I removed my tie and suit jacket. I pulled my overcoat on and slipped the keys to the Mercedes I’d rented into my coat pocket.

It was now or never.

After all these years, it had come to this. I couldn’t believe my mother had gone from living in the huge spacious mansion with my father to this dump.

But really did I expect anything more from her? The woman who had cheated on my father and left us?

As I walked up the rickety steps to the door, several of the men eyed me in my cashmere overcoat. I supposed I should’ve dressed down for the occasion.

“Cold day, isn’t it?” I commented as they inched closer to me.

“Just who are you looking for, boy? Are you with the IRS?” One of the men stepped closer to me. He reeked of stale whiskey and sweat.

Trying not to wince from his odor, I smiled.

“No, I’m here to see Debra.”

The men guffawed loudly.

“You mean Debs? Debs goes down?” They continued laughing. One of the men smiled at me showing he only had a few teeth in his mouth.

“Um, yeah, that would probably be her.”

Another man in a red plaid shirt decorated with holes peered at me. His rheumy eyes struggled to focus.

“You with the FBI? Is this ‘bout that bust a few months back?”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m—“

“Nah, Russ, he’s a john! Debs does suck a mean cock, don’t she?” The nearly toothless man roared with laughter.

The other two men puffed on their cigarettes blowing their smoke toward me. I coughed slightly. I loathed the odor of cigarette smoke.

“Look, I’m Debra’s son.”

The men stood speechless staring at me with their mouths agape.

“You can’t be serious. Look at you.”

Taking a deep breath, I stared them down.

“I know it’s a stretch, but Debra is my mother.”

The man in the plaid shirt scratched his gray head.

“Now how can that be possible, a good looking fella like yourself? You look educated, smart.”

“Rich,” said the other.

“I don’t really have time for this, gentlemen. I need to speak with Debra. Is she here?”

The toothless man gestured to the top floor.

“She stays up there in number three. Place is a wreck. Be careful going up there that you don’t step on Susie.”

“Who’s Susie?” I asked expected it was likely a pet.

“Susie, my wife! She just shot up some really good shit, so she’s gonna be out for a while.”

Struggling to maintain my composure, I pushed past the men into the dank, dark building. As soon as I entered, the acrid stench of stale urine and mold hit me. Clasping my hand over my face, I made my way up the steep stairway. I kept my eye out for old Susie. Stepping onto to the third floor, there she was just as he said passed out on the ragged carpet. Her hair was a dull shade of brown streaked with gray. Tiny globs of saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth. Her clothes were ripped and stained with what appeared to be old blood.

I shivered with disgust as I stepped over her. The stench of the building was causing me to feel ill. Finally, I reached a doorway with a crooked black number on it.

Apartment 3.

Taking a deep breath, I rapped on the door. I had no idea what kind of condition she would be in when she answered.

As I knocked again, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, I immediately was hit in the face was the stench of urine.

Grimacing, I glanced around the tiny apartment. It couldn’t have been larger than seven hundred square feet. The kitchen consisted of a very small rusted refrigerator and a hot plate. No stove. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes crusted with food and mold. Flies hovered around the dishes. Water from a leaking faucet dripped continuously. The kitchen table was littered with needles and tiny plastic bags. Two blackened spoons, a lighter, and a rubber tube sat amidst the trash.

I closed my eyes briefly. This was my worst nightmare.

Still, Debra was nowhere to be found.

“Debra? I’m sorry to just walk in. It’s Ashton, your son.”

I roamed about the tiny apartment. The entire place was covered in a thick layer of cat hair.

But I didn’t see a cat.

Suddenly, a white fluffy cat came walking out of what I assumed was the bedroom. It rubbed against my legs. I cringed knowing that my dark suit pants would be covered in hair. I was definitely going to have to send this suit to the cleaners as soon as I left here. Hell, I might even have to burn it.

I reached to pet the cat. He purred happily swishing his tail everywhere. He had a tag on his collar.

Cecil.

Nice.

“Debra?” I called out again. I had an overwhelming feeling that something was very wrong. I hesitated outside the bedroom door was cracked. What if she was nude? What if she was with a client? That would be even worse.

I rapped my knuckles softly on the door listening for any sounds.

Nothing.

“Debra? Are you okay? It’s Ashton.”

Finally, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

A sob caught in my throat. There she was, the mommy I’d once loved so much lying on the floor passed out amidst the filth. Her hair lay in dirty blonde strings around her face. Blood was caked in the corners of her mouth. Both arms were riddled with track marks from where she’d shot herself up with dirty needles. I cringed as I noticed the floor littered with used needles, rubber tubing, and a dozen blackened spoons. Black bugs writhed in the mess crawling out of wadded up paper bags with various fast food logos emblazoned on them.

Shaking my head, I bent down to touch her wrist. She felt slightly warm, but cooler than normal. I tried slapping her cheeks lightly.

“Debra! Debra!”

She remained unresponsive. Her skin had a waxy pallor. I jumped back my heart pounding in my chest. Was she dead? Despite my dislike of her, my eyes misted. No matter what she’d done to me she was still my mother. The mother I’d once loved so very much was still somewhere inside her.

Holding her wrist, I waited to feel a pulse. Seconds seemed like hours as I waited to feel her heart beat. Nothing.

Immediately, I wiped the dried blood from her mouth with my shirt sleeve and began CPR. Desperately, I pumped her chest and blew into her mouth.

After several frantic attempts, I felt a faint pulse. It was weak, but it was there.

“Debra!” I shouted trying to revive her. Her pulse remained, but it was so weak. Fearing that she might slip away, I dialed 911.

As I waited for the ambulance, I pulled her up into my arms cradling her head. I smoothed her greasy hair back from her face. Surprisingly for the hard living she’d done in the past, she looked quite young. Her face remained relatively unlined. I kept holding her wrist checking her pulse. It remained faint, but consistent. As I held her, memories of her holding me when I was little came flooding back.

Her eyelids fluttered open.

“Ashton? Is that you?” Her voice trembled it was so weak.

“Yes, it’s me, Debra.” I clutched her hand tightly.

“Ashton, I have so much to tell you. Things I should’ve told you--”

Suddenly, she began to convulse violently. Saliva foamed from the corners of her mouth.

“Debra!” I cried, slapping her cheeks.

“Mom!”