By Chituru Odia., Port Harcourt
I never imagined that a simple gift would completely transform the relationship I had with my mom.
Ironically, it all started because of my friend’s story. Franklin had shared how he had started completing his Dear Daddy memory journal with his father a few months ago.
"What's that?" I asked.
He went on to tell me about conversations they had never had before, stories he had never heard, memories they had uncovered together and how it had become his favourite part of every week.
As he spoke, I found myself smiling, but I also couldn't stop thinking about my own mom.
"Why not try this with her?" I thought.
A few days later, I ordered the Dear Mommy journal.
When I gave it to mom, she smiled, admired the beautiful keepsake box, the fountain pen and thanked me.
"I've never used a fountain pen before," she said with a smile.
I could see the joy on her face, as though I had handed her a treasure chest. Like many Nigerian mothers, she thought the gift itself was the surprise. Neither of us knew that the real gift wasn't inside the box.
It was hidden inside the questions.
The following Sunday after church, I walked into the dining room and found my mom sitting quietly at the table, smiling to herself as she wrote in the journal.
Curious, I walked over and realized she had already filled a few pages on her own.
She looked up at me with a smile and said,
"Come and see what I've been writing."
Excitedly, I pulled up a chair beside her and began reading.
One answer led to another conversation. Then another question. Then another memory.
Before we knew it, almost three hours had passed.
From that day on, Sunday afternoons quietly became ours.
No phones.
No television.
No distractions.
Just a mother and daughter discovering stories we never knew we needed to share.
One Sunday, the journal asked about childhood adventures.
Before she even answered, she burst into laughter.
She told me about growing up in Nzimiro Street in old Port Harcourt, climbing mango trees with her friends on their way back from school because she wanted to prove she could climb just as high as the boys - and she usually did. On one Friday afternoon, she made it almost to the top before she slipped, crashing through the branches and landing hard on the ground.
As she laughed, she gently pulled up her dress and pointed to a scar just below her knee.
"This one?" she smiled.
"That's where I fell."
I stared at it in complete disbelief. I had seen that scar for as long as I could remember. As a little girl, I had probably played around it, yet I had never asked where it came from.
Neither had my siblings.
That little scar, which had been visible my entire life, suddenly became more than a scar.
It became the memory of a fearless little girl who loved climbing trees and refused to believe there was anything boys could do that she couldn't.
And somehow, for the first time, I wasn't looking at my mother.
I was looking at the little girl she used to be - the very girl from whom I inherited my fearless spirit.
We laughed until tears rolled down our faces.
The following Sunday was completely different.
The journal asked a simple question:
"What has been the most difficult season of your life?"
My mom stopped reading.
The room became quiet. She stared at the page for what felt like forever.
“Why are you so quiet Mom?” I asked.
Then she quietly put down her fountain pen.
The tears came before the words.
She began telling me about her mother.
Only a year before she graduated from university, her mother passed away unexpectedly.
She described the phone call she had while in school.
The painful journey home on an overnight bus.
The disbelief.
The silence that filled the house.
The feeling of losing someone who meant the entire world to her, her dreams and almost every important chapter of her early life. The woman who had single-handedly sponsored her education after her father had died five years earlier.
I had never heard this story before.
Not once.
She admitted she had rarely spoken about it.
Perhaps because it hurt too much.
Perhaps because life had simply moved on.
For a long moment, I couldn't say anything.
I reached across the table, held her hand and we cried together.
When she finally finished speaking, she looked at me through tears and quietly said,
"I don't think I've ever truly talked about this before."
Then she smiled.
Not because the pain had disappeared.
But because sharing it somehow made it lighter.
It felt as though she had finally put down a burden she had been carrying alone for decades.
That afternoon taught me something I will never forget.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give the people we love isn't advice.
It isn't money.
It isn't another birthday present.
It's simply creating a safe space for them to tell the stories they've been carrying their entire lives.
As the weeks passed, every Sunday uncovered another chapter of our family's history.
She told me about my grandparents and the values they lived by.
About waking before sunrise to help around the house.
About my grandfather's discipline and how he was one of the first lawyers in Port Harcourt.
About my grandmother's kindness, recipes and traditions that held the family together.
She shared stories of love, sacrifice, heartbreak, resilience and faith, including how my father lost his job, became seriously ill, and how she struggled to keep our family together until things eventually became better.
Stories that explained why she became the woman who raised us.
Stories I never knew I needed to hear.
Today, when I look at the pages of our journal, I don't just see answers to questions.
I see priceless moments filled with laughter.
Moments of silence.
Tears that healed.
Family history that would have disappeared if nobody had asked.
Even parts of our family tree that would otherwise have been forgotten.
In many Nigerian homes, we assume there will always be another Sunday.
Another Christmas.
Another Thanksgiving.
Another family gathering.
Another opportunity to ask the questions we've been postponing.
But life has a way of reminding us that tomorrow is a privilege, not a promise.
I'm grateful one friend's story inspired me to begin this journey with my mom while I still could. I am also grateful for Otto’s experience with his father which eventually inspired him to create these journals because one day, these pages will become a treasured heirloom for my children and grandchildren.
But even more valuable than the words written inside them are the moments we shared while writing them.
The conversations.
The laughter.
The tears.
The hugs across the dining table.
The chance to know my mother - not just as my mom, but as a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, a dreamer, a young girl who climbed mango trees, and a woman whose life story deserved to be heard.
Looking back now, I realize the journal didn't just preserve my mother's memories.
It gave us something even more precious.
As her only daughter, it gave us something we will treasure forever - it brought us closer.
And if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:
The people we love are living libraries. They have lived extraordinary lives, carrying stories, wisdom and memories that deserve to be preserved. All they need is someone willing to ask the first question.