THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY!

It is said that the death of your Mother is the first sorrrow in your life that you weep over without her.
I was too young.
It was too early.
There was too much weeping.
And the death of my Mother confirmed something else.

Actually, it was the letter that finally did it, more than the death of my Mum.
The letter that I found in that old brown battered secret suitcase was the thing that finally took me Through the Glass Darkly.

The physical presence of the suitcase wasn't really a secret.
We all knew that it was on the top of the big old oak wardrobe.
It seemed as if it had always been there, dusty and waiting, protectively guarding its mysterious contents.
It was those contents that were actually the secret.
Once or twice one of us children had dared to stretch up on tiptoe from a chair to touch it.
The suitcase was locked.
And I had always known that it was locked.
I didn't know where the key was, or even if there was a key.

But it was no longer locked.
With Mum no longer around to prevent it, I had forced it open with a pair of scissors.
And inside, amongst a pile of papers and old photographs,
I found the letter.
The letter that explained everything, and, in turn, nothing!
The letter explained the reason why I didn't, and was never ever going to get my miracle.

The letter was beautifully handwritten in the blackest Indian ink, and on a single sheet of old, mellowed, yellowing and crumpled paper.
It was still inside the official stiff cardboard registered envelope, with the original stamp embossed to the front of it, and it was addressed to my Mum.
And the letter stated simply and clearly that I was "a child of the devil."

Reading those words was like being physically hit with a boulder.
The breath was knocked out of me leaving me shaking.
It floated away as if carried by helium, and something inside me broke.
I though it might be my heart, or perhaps my very soul.
I actually felt it break.
It shattered, and flew around like smashed smithereens of crystal.
I could almost see it.
I feared what would happen to me if I was unable to put it together again.
And, even if I could, I just knew that the broken places would be forever weakened.

There were many other words in the letter. 
Harsh and cruel words.
They seemed to blur and dance on the paper as I tried to focus my eyes.
The only words that I was able to see clearly were, "she is a child of the devil."
Those words were actually leaping at me from the page.

The letter was signed...From Mother.
No 'With Love', or even XXX.
Simply...From Mother.

And so, it would seem that I, Callie,
first born child of Grandmas first born child,
thus her first, her very first ever grandchild....
was, apparently, also a child of the devil!
Why?
How could this be?
What did it mean?

Well, the letter didn't actually say why or how.
It didn't really explain anything further.
The statement was written bluntly, and read as a definite fact.
So I had to assume that the reason was simply because it was the truth.
It was certainly what Grandma believed to be the truth, or why would she have written it?
It was there in the letter, clearly stated in black and white.
She must be right, mustn't she?
Yes, of course, she absolutely must be right.

But, do you know the strangest thing?
My Grandma was also dead when I opened the suitcase and read the letter.
She had been dead for some years.
And my Grandma had never,
ever,
not even once,
actually met me!