As a child, I never understood why my mother slept with the window open, even during freezing winters. I would wrap myself in blankets while teasing her, but she would only smile and say fresh air keeps the soul alive. It felt like one of her harmless habits I would never understand.

After she died, the house became painfully silent, as if even the walls were grieving. While going through her belongings, I found her old journals hidden in a nightstand. I opened them hoping to feel closer to her again, not knowing I was about to discover a truth she never spoke aloud.

One entry stopped me completely—she wrote about a time she felt trapped and used the open window as her only way to survive her darkest moments. What I read next made me realize that the life I thought I knew about my mother was only the surface of a much deeper story.