TODD THOMPSON
Leavenworth County Attorney
Special to Hutch Post
I found my mom’s Easter egg.
But it wasn’t really an egg — and it wasn’t Easter.
In fact, my mom has been gone for 17 years.
Before she passed, she was an avid gardener — a passion inherited from her mother. Both women could spend hours in the yard, lost in the rhythm of soil and sun. My grandmother loved flowering plants — perennials, annuals, anything that bloomed. My mom loved it all. Landscaping, vegetable beds, climbing vines — it didn’t matter. If it grew, she’d find joy in it. She even won a Yard Award once, though she’d never mention it herself.
Introverted and naturally shy, my mom had no need for social interaction. She needed her gardening tools, soap operas, and dog, which were her sanctuary.
She was wonderful — funny, caring, incredibly resilient. But like so many others, she struggled with something we couldn't fix: she was an alcoholic.
Like many addictions, hers started small. A drink here or there, but it only became a problem after my grandmother died, and we were told my dad only had a few years to live. That’s when the alcohol – the addiction – took over.
We tried everything to help. Interventions. Detox. Cutting off the supply. But she always found a way. When my dad died, her spirit seemed to go with him. Even gardening — her lifelong passion — lost its meaning. The addiction had sunk in too deep.
When she passed, I inherited more than just her things — I inherited her plants. I did my best to keep them alive. Later, when I met my wife and we moved into our own home, those plants came with us.
They became a living thread between past and present. My wife never met my mom, but she understood how much those plants meant to me. She didn’t have a green thumb at first, but she became one of the best daughters-in-law by caring for them — and for me, too.
Some of those plants still thrive today. But just after Easter this year, we noticed one was fading. My wife suggested repotting it.
My son and I took the plant outside to repot it into a larger container—something that hadn’t been done since before my mom passed away. As we pulled the plant and old soil from the pot, I discovered something unexpected: an Easter egg—my mom’s Easter egg.
My son noticed it too, and asked, “What is that?”
I knew immediately.
It was coated in dirt, the label barely readable — but I could still recognize it. A bottle of her favorite liquor, long hidden in the pot.
During my family’s fight with my mom’s addiction, we tossed out every bottle of alcohol in the house. Somehow, my mom would cleverly find ways to get more. And knowing we’d get rid of it, she started hiding them in closets, drawers, even outside. Whenever we saw the signs, we’d start searching. Quintessentially, we were in an adult Easter egg hunt.
Apparently, this one had gone unnoticed for nearly two decades.
It’s odd how something that I hated so much could stir up so much love. The heartache this object caused now brings a different ache, for what once was, and a longing to return to that time. That bottle brought back grief, guilt, and regret.
But it also brought love.
That bottle, and the substance inside, don’t define my mom. It’s not who she was. It’s what killed her. But that bottle gave me something in return: a chance to talk to my son. To tell him the truth about her — not just the struggle, but the beauty, too. The way she loved deeply. The way she poured herself into love for our family, animals, and yes, gardening, too.
In that moment, I heard her again — the way I always do.
And strangely, I’m grateful for that final Easter egg hunt.
If you or someone you know is struggling with substance use or emotional distress, there’s help available. You can call SAMHSA at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for free, confidential support 24/7. If you require immediate emotional support, call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.