Cheryl: Silence and Secrets
This story is not from a client, but a story of a personal friend. Cheryl was a gentle, soft-spoken nurse and the devoted mother of three boys. Their father left when the boys were young, later dying in another state under the care of a second family.
By the time I met Cheryl, her sons were grown and building lives of their own. Her middle son, Todd, remained nearby. When Cheryl was diagnosed with peritoneal cancer, Todd moved in to care for her. His care was imperfect, but constant. He loved her deeply—as did all her boys.
Cheryl had been a selfless mother and a tireless nurse, often working extra shifts to give her sons the life she wanted for them. She rarely complained, though she also rarely showed much exuberance. During her illness, her greatest comfort came from watching reruns of soothing, classic shows: Matlock, The Andy Griffith Show, Leave It to Beaver, and I Dream of Jeannie. She and Todd spent countless hours side by side with those shows playing in the background.
As her cancer progressed, Todd’s role became ever more intimate—first daily, then hourly—until he was caring for her as her body slowly shut down. In May of 2020, Cheryl was admitted to the hospital, where she died with a fellow nurse by her side.
Months later, Todd began researching his family history on Ancestry. What he learned shook him: the man he had always known as his father—the man who left and later died—was not his biological father at all. His biological father was, in fact, a pharmaceutical sales representative he had never heard of. With both his mother and his presumed father gone, Todd was left with no one to ask, no one to understand, and no one to forgive.
His sense of betrayal was compounded by the many quiet hours he and his mother had shared together. Why didn’t she tell me? The silence became a shadow on what had once been a beautifully deepening bond. For Todd, Cheryl’s secrecy felt like a fracture in her legacy, especially as her caregiver.
Todd continues on his path of resolution and healing. I wish him peace as he carries this truth forward. For myself, I find comfort in offering forgiveness to Cheryl—for the terrible burden she must have carried. I also ask forgiveness for my own lack of understanding, and I hold gratitude for the lesson her story leaves us: that silences and secrets carried to the grave can wound as deeply as the illness itself.
