My Dear Daughter,

It’s been a difficult couple of months. There’s been a lot of lows and very few highs, but I’m not going to share the details with you. As your mom, it’s my job to hide all that scary adult stuff from you. 

Your father and I have often talked about the things we would do with you and the memories we would make together as a family, but even in our daydreams we remind ourselves that we’d be your parents first and your friends second. 

As our child, it’s not your job to carry our burdens or fill our emotional buckets; it’s our job to carry and fill yours. It’s your job to be a kid for as long as possible. In my mind’s eye you’ll always probably be around 10 or 11 years old, and even though you’re not real, I still feel compelled to protect you and your fictitious childhood. 

So, I’ll say it again, it’s been a difficult couple of months, and that made choosing Books I Can’t Recommend to you very challenging. 

In the end, I selected one that’s been on my bookshelf for decades. I don’t even remember how I acquired it. It’s used and worn, and a corner of the back cover is torn off (not by me… I don’t think… at least I hope not). I knew it was a classic and therefore I could never part with it, but I wasn’t clamoring to read it.  

Historical fiction is not a genre I usually gravitate towards (I prefer “fantastical” fiction… tales filled with all things strange, magical, and impossible), but I picked it for two reasons… 

1. The title made my autumn “spidey-senses” tingle and…
2. It was short… I missed you and wanted an excuse to write to you again, soon rather than later. 

*****************

Book #3: The Witch of Blackbird Pond, By: Elizabeth George Speare

Surprisingly, for a 249-page book, written in 1958, it took me longer to finish than I anticipated. As I said, historical fiction is not my bailiwick, and I struggled with the gloomy circumstances of the protagonist, Katherine Tyler, at the start of the story. 

That said, I think I was experiencing genre denial because the witch just served to complicate my emotions. The title character turned out to be a kind, elderly widow, named Hannah Tupper, who lived in isolation on the outskirts of town. She was labeled a witch because her religious beliefs as a Quaker did not jive with those of her rigid Puritan neighbors.  

For the same reason I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, I choose not to explain why that architype struck a chord within me… especially, given the currently social climate (of which I’m grateful not to have to shield you from). 

Let it be said that you do not need to feel the same emotions that I did to enjoy this story. That’s true of all books actually… In fact, I’ve often wondered how similar out tastes in books would have been. Would you have traveled down the fantasy road with me, or would you have set up camp in the world of non-fiction like you father? I’ll never know and I’m still processing the grief I feel from those unanswered questions. 

Regarding “the witch,” I will say this… once Hannah was introduced (page 91 for reference), I couldn’t put the book down. Kit blossomed in the light of her newfound friend. She found her stride and her place in society without losing the part of herself that fueled her independence and compassion. 

Once again, I credit Speare with how well she illustrated this emotional shift. As Kit began to feel less lonely and more hopeful, so did I. Unsurprisingly, Kit’s character development and successful assimilation into her adoptive family turned out to be paramount to the story’s dramatic climax and falling action. 

It’s incredible how a story set in Colonial America can feel so relevant to the present day. I suppose that’s why it’s considered a classic. Maybe I need to give more historical fiction a chance. 

As in my previous letters to you, I won’t spoil what are perhaps the most important details of the story because my heart is too hell bent on perpetuating this illusion that you exist — After all, what if you read it one day for yourself? How could I live with myself if I robbed you of the ending and the emotions that go with it? — I know it’s silly, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I will say, however, that I was on the edge of my seat, and I think you would be too. 

One Final Thought… 

I feel compelled to share one additional detail regarding this book… let’s call it a lived life lesson that I regret not being able to share with you… except in this imagined correspondence. 

Stories have a way of narrating our lives when we least expect it. The words can mirror our own emotions so completely that they ripple within us, making us feel less alone.

I mentioned earlier that I’ve had this book for decades and that I chose it now for it’s length and it’s title. It was a means to an end. I just wanted to feel your fictitious presence in my life again and despite feeling emotionally rung out from recent events, I didn’t have any aspirations beyond that. 

Then, I read this passage… 

“After the keen still days of September, the October sun filled the world with mellow warmth. Before Kit’s eyes a miracle took place, for which she was totally unprepared. She stood in the doorway of her uncle’s house and held her breath in wonder. The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her. The dried brown leaves crackled beneath her feet and gave off a delicious smoky fragrance. No one had ever told her about autumn in New England. The excitement of it beat in her blood. Every morning she woke with a new confidence and buoyancy she could not explain. In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible. As the days grew shorter and colder, this new sense of expectancy increased and her heightened awareness seemed to give new significance to every common thing around her.” 
(Speare 146-147)

Until very recently, I felt this same “sense of expectancy” and “wonder” every autumn season. Leaves would burst into color and tumble to the ground, and I would sniff the air like I could smell the next great chapter of my life blowing in on the breeze…

Your father and I first talked about marriage in 2014 during an autumn stroll at a cider mill. We closed on our first house and adopted our first four-legged child (Lola) in the fall of 2016. I began a great job in late September of 2019, and I became a published author in October of 2022… 

Autumn is, and has always been, expectation and possibilities. Yet not once, in 35 years, have I heard someone else describe it in those same terms. Kit’s first impression of autumn spoke to my very soul. 

Why does this matter? Because a few weeks ago, before I read this book, I recall turning to your father and saying, “I’m not excited about fall this year.” He asked why and I said something like the new beginnings and possibilities I associate with fall feel like they belong to everyone but us this year. 

Then I read The Witch of Blackbird Pond. 

Irrelevant to the outcome of the story, the purpose of that small passage was to mark time for the reader with the changing of the seasons and yet I still feel like the universe smacked me upside the head with a 67-year-old book. Message received. 

My point in telling you this, dear daughter, is that stories aren’t just words on page, or genres on a shelf. They’re testaments to the human experience and opening yourself up to their wisdom through different authors, characters, and perspectives is an education that can’t be replicated by doomscrolling news headlines or socializing online. 

I sincerely hope that the next book I choose to read for you, continues to guide me in ways that make me feel closer to you… or knocks some sense into me. I welcome both.

Until next time,

Your Fictional Mother