My dad died unexpectedly when I was young. I never saw my mom shed a single tear. After the funeral, I remember her carrying on with her day as if nothing had happened. Recently, mom also passed away. While sorting through her things, I found a box of my dad’s medications hidden in her closet. Inside were bottles with his name on them—unopened, with expiration dates long past.
I remember the week dad died like a broken old VHS tape playing on repeat. I was only ten, but I still hear the screen door banging shut behind the paramedics. They said it was a heart attack. No autopsy. He had high blood pressure, maybe cholesterol issues, but it was sudden. The kind of death people shrug at, saying, “these things happen.”
Mom sat me down after they took his body away. She squeezed my hand once and said, “You’re the man of the house now.” That was it. We never spoke of dad again. No pictures in the living room. No stories, no birthdays marked. Just gone.
When I found that box in her closet, I was cleaning out her old room after the hospice took her things. She died from kidney failure, slow and painful, in a quiet bed. I stayed with her that last week. We never had the kind of relationship where you say the big things. We talked about what to do with her dishes, donating coats. Nothing about dad.
But in that closet, behind an old sewing machine, was the lidless box. Inside were at least six prescription bottles—dusty, sealed, all dated about two months before dad died. His name was on every label: Liron Choudhury. I stared. A dull ache began deep in my skull.
Why were his blood pressure meds still sealed if he had a known heart condition?
I looked up the medications—beta blockers, statins, blood thinners. One was for atrial fibrillation. “Take one daily.” I remembered dad clutching his chest after running for the bus.
He should have been on these. Mom clearly had access to them.
At first, I thought maybe he refused. Didn’t like side effects. But I never saw him take any. I’d overheard arguments about picking up prescriptions.
That’s when I got curious. I didn’t want to accuse a dead woman, but something tugged at me. I called dad’s old doctor. She was retired, but when I explained, she agreed to meet me.
Dr. Malik remembered him well. Said he was nervous about his health but very compliant. Never missed appointments. “He asked too many questions,” she laughed.
I asked about the meds. She said yes, prescribed about two months before his heart attack, with a follow-up planned. He never showed. She tried calling—no answer. Assumed he died before starting them.
“But he had them at home,” I said quietly.
She blinked. “Then he picked them up?”
I nodded.
That’s when it hit her too. If he picked them up but never took them—why?
She said nothing. I thanked her and left, mind racing.
I pulled out old bank statements. Two things jumped out. Mom picked up the meds—charges on her card, not dad’s. And the next day, she transferred $9,000 from their joint account to her private savings.
I didn’t know she had a separate account.
I called my cousin Aari, a paralegal. Told her everything. She was silent, then whistled low.
“You think she stopped him from taking his meds?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But why hide them?”
Aari came over, and we searched the closet. Behind a cookie tin full of buttons was a velvet pouch with a gold chain and a folded letter.
It was addressed to me.
Dad’s handwriting.
If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it. I hope I’m wrong. I hope you never see this.
My hands shook. Aari reached for it; I pulled it back.
Something’s wrong between your mom and me. I’ve been sick. I don’t think she wants me better. She says I’m exaggerating. She didn’t pick up my meds like she promised. Maybe I’m paranoid. But if anything happens, don’t assume it’s natural.
I read that over and over.
Dad knew.
He felt it.
And she did it anyway.
Aari was stunned. “Is this enough to—”
“To what?” I cut her off. “They’re both dead.”
I felt hollow. Not angry—just empty.
All those years, thinking he died from bad genes or luck. Maybe it was something darker.
That night, I replayed memories. Mom snapping at dad when he forgot trash. Rolling her eyes when he said he felt dizzy. I thought she was no-nonsense. But now?
Maybe she thought he was faking. Overwhelmed. Maybe she resented caring for a sick man.
I decided to ask the woman who cleaned our house—Nalini. She’d been around then and stayed friendly with mom.
I invited her for tea and asked if she remembered anything odd near dad’s death.
She hesitated, then said, “Mom said something strange a few days before: ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if he just stopped pretending.’ I didn’t know what she meant. Now…”
She trailed off.
There it was again.
Mom didn’t believe him. Didn’t care. Or worse.
But I won’t drag this through courts. No legal proof. No new cause of death. Just a box of pills, a letter, and quiet suspicions.
I kept thinking of that letter. Dad, writing it late at night, hiding it away, hoping he’d never need it.
I decided I owed him the truth.
Not to the police. But to myself.
So I did something mom would’ve hated.
I organized a small memorial for dad. Twenty-five years later.
I invited family friends and neighbors who remembered him. I read the letter aloud. People cried. Some were shocked.
Aari spoke too.
We shared stories, laughed about his crossword obsession.
For the first time, I felt dad got the goodbye he deserved.
After the service, I went to the cemetery. His headstone was basic. Mom had picked it. Just his name and dates.
I brought a new plaque.
I set it gently beside the stone.
It read: “He tried. We see him now.”
And I meant it.
Sometimes justice doesn’t come how we want. But we can tell the truth. Honor what was hidden.
I’m not angry anymore.
I’m done pretending.
If you’ve uncovered a family truth too late or finally seen someone after they’re gone—share this. Someone out there needs to know they’re not alone.