🔴 HE PICKED UP THE GUITAR AND STARTED SINGING THE SONG I WROTE FOR HIM
I froze, halfway through unloading groceries, because I KNOW that guitar is in storage. How?
The air in the kitchen felt thick, summer humid even with the AC blasting, and his voice, usually a comfortable rumble, was too loud, echoing in the sudden silence after my car door slammed. It was OUR song, about the stupid way we met, every line a memory only we shared. “Where did you get that?” I finally managed to ask, my voice cracking.
He stopped playing, his face pale under the harsh kitchen light, and stammered, “Um… this old thing? I’ve had it for ages.”
A lie. A clumsy, obvious lie, and the scent of lavender – Mom’s lavender – filled my nostrils, rising from the guitar case leaning against the counter. She died two weeks ago, and now HE has her guitar?
Then, the music stopped, the kitchen door opened, and my mother walked in.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
I dropped the grocery bags. They hit the floor with a thud, sending an apple rolling across the linoleum. It wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t a dream. My mother stood in the doorway, alive and breathing, looking… slightly thinner, perhaps, but undeniably real.
My brain short-circuited. “Mom?” The word was a whisper, strangled by disbelief.
She gave a small, tentative smile, her eyes darting between me and my partner. “Hello, darling.”
My partner sagged against the counter, the guitar clutched forgotten in his hands. His face, minutes ago pale with a lie, was now etched with a mixture of relief and apprehension.
“What… what is happening?” I finally found my voice, louder this time, laced with hysteria. “You… you were dead! We had a funeral! Two weeks ago!”
My mother stepped fully into the kitchen, her hands clasped in front of her. “It was… complicated. A necessary measure.” She looked at my partner, who nodded silently. “It was a health scare. A very serious one. The doctors… they weren’t sure. It required immediate, experimental treatment abroad that had to be kept absolutely confidential for privacy and safety reasons. The pretense of… well, of death… was the only way to ensure I had the time and space to recover without any external stress or attention.”
“You faked your death?” I stared at her, then at my partner, who couldn’t meet my eyes. “And you… you knew?” I accused him, the anger boiling up fast, eclipsing the shock. “You let me grieve? You let me plan a funeral for my mother who was *alive*?”
He finally looked up, his expression miserable. “She made me promise. Swore me to absolute secrecy until she was strong enough. It was excruciating. Every day, watching you… I wanted to tell you so badly, but I couldn’t. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
My mother stepped forward, reaching a hand towards me, but I flinched away. “The guitar?” I demanded, pointing. “Why did you have her guitar? Why were you playing *our* song?”
She hesitated. “He came to the storage unit for me. To retrieve a few things I needed for… my recovery. The guitar was one of them. It’s my grandmother’s, you know, it meant the world to her, and to me. I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.” She looked at my partner again. “He was practicing your song… I asked him to. It was a way… a way to feel close to you while I was gone. And maybe… maybe a way to prepare himself. He was going to tell you soon, darling. When I was ready to reappear.”
The anger warred with a wave of nausea. Faked death. Secret treatment. Partner sworn to secrecy. A guitar retrieval operation. My song used as a bizarre form of therapy or communication. The world tilted slightly.
“So… you’re not dead,” I stated flatly, picking up the bruised apple from the floor.
“No, darling. I’m not.” My mother’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry. More sorry than you can possibly know for the pain I caused you. But I’m here now. I’m well. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I looked at her, then at my partner, the man who had shared this monumental secret and played my heart’s song on a ghost guitar. The kitchen was silent again, save for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of traffic. The groceries lay scattered, a testament to the moment my normal life had collided head-on with an unbelievable reality. It wasn’t a normal day, and our family wasn’t normal anymore, but standing there, alive in my kitchen, were the two people who mattered most. There was a lifetime of explanations, anger, and tears ahead, but for now, the suffocating mystery had lifted, replaced by the messy, complicated, undeniable truth.