It Happened To Me: I Got A Ransom Note From My Mom

We’ve all been there. You forget to call your mom for a few days and she goes absolutely freakin’ crazy. Then you realize it’s actually been a few weeks. Or a few months. Awkward. This is the story of how a chain of unfortunate events drove my mother to do something drastic.

It was January 14th. The snow was falling and everyone had the stomach flu. I was walking to my first Thrill meeting, questioning if it would be as terrible as everyone said it was. I was confident that The Thrill couldn’t be that bad because they accepted me, but I was also doubtful they could be that good because they accepted me. 

While texting a friend, I made my way to the post office. Normally the post office is my safe place, but that day it felt dangerous. There was an icy chill in the air and an ominous feeling of doom that sent shivers down my spine. Looking up from my phone, I realized that I was actually just standing in the middle of the road. 

At the post office, I reached my PO box and stared down at an envelope from my mom. Then I did something I would later regret: I opened it. 

The backstory of this letter began when my parents dropped me off at Kenyon for my first year. As we reached the Kenyon campus, I saw the sadness dawn on my mom’s face as she realized her job as a full-time mother was coming to a close. She crammed in a year’s worth of emotional support and encouragement into a tearful ten minute goodbye. I panicked, promising her I would write. 

The first few weeks of college went by quickly as I discovered a cappella and was rejected from every single group, even the ones I didn’t audition for. Through all of this, I got lots of letters from my mom, and answered through text. However, she insisted that the U.S postal service was the best form of communication. Then, before I could say “Just text me, boomer,” or write any letters, it was thanksgiving break. Back home, I was severely scolded and I promised to write.

When I got back to college, I did write a few letters, but was too lazy to walk to the post office to mail them. I tried reading them over the phone, but my mother once again insisted that the U.S postal service was the best form of communication. I was failing as a son, and I was about to face the consequences. Which brings us to the letter. 

Back at the post office, I opened the letter, expecting the usual supportive, beautiful handwritten greeting that my mother usually sends. Instead, I unfolded a yellow sheet of legal paper on which was glued cut out letters from various magazines, not unlike a ransom note you’d see in a movie. The words spelled out, “Write Your Mother.” 

With chills running down my spine, I ran back to my room, wrote my mom a letter, and prayed that it arrived before I did for spring break. I thought about texting her that a letter was on the way, but then I remembered that the U.S postal system was the best form of communication.

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