My mother-in-law passed three weeks ago. We were never close, but while sorting her things, I found her diary — and learned she had loved me like a daughter.
Her words revealed fears I never saw: she wasn’t cold, just afraid of losing her son. Page after page showed quiet affection I’d mistaken for distance.
At the end, I found a letter and a key to a storage unit. Inside were dozens of her paintings — scenes of our family, even one of me holding my newborn. I never knew she was an artist.
Through her art, I finally saw her love — silent, patient, and real.
We later held a small gallery show, and my daughter now calls her “Grandma the artist.”
I’ve learned that love isn’t always spoken. Sometimes, it’s painted quietly, waiting to be found.
