"You Were a Bad Mother To Me."

It doesn’t feel like confronting the woman who neglected me my entire life.

Photo by Candy Treft on Unsplash

“You were a bad mother to me.”

I’m sitting across the table from her, in some restaurant that, ten years ago, used to be a toy store. It’s been two years since she was in front of me. She hasn’t changed at all; I can’t decide if this disturbs or comforts me.

“You failed me over and over again,” I continue. She looks at me teary-eyed, with a small smile on her lips, betraying the severity of the situation. She’s probably thinking about all the ways in which I’ve changed – how much stronger and more confident I’ve gotten in just two short years. How much she wishes she was more like me.

“You’re right. I wasn’t a good mom to you,” she says. The calmness and clarity of her agreement takes the wind out of my chest and stops my momentum in its tracks. “But I’d like you to understand that your Nana was also not a good mother to me.”

Before my eyes, my mother is once again 12 years old, listening to tires pull into her driveway late at night and praying it’s not the police coming to bust her drug dealing parents.

I’ve heard the stories over the years. None of what she is saying is new. What is new, however, is what I say next: “I need you to realize that all of the ways she made you feel, you made me feel. I’m not interested in hearing about Nana. I’m here to talk about me.”

She sucks her lips in, biting them into place, and nods. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears and leans forward into her crossed arms on the table between us.

It doesn’t feel like confronting the woman who neglected me my entire life, who begrudged every penny she spent on me, who made me feel guilty for needing a drop of her time or love. No, it feels like slapping a puppy. As if, in some way, I have already outgrown my mother, the tables have already turned, and now it is my job to hold her accountable and teach her how to apologize.

It’s been five years since that moment. I didn’t realize it in that moment, but that would mark the end of feeling like I had a mother. Forever after, she would feel more like a lost and confused perpetual teenage sister rather than an authority figure.

At just 20 years old, I eclipsed and surpassed her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I did the best I could. I know it wasn’t enough. I know your childhood was horrible. I am sorry. I love you; I promise I love you, but I wasn’t ready to be your mother. Please forgive me.”

How can I hold it against her?

She had three kids to take care of before she hit 20 years old. She never got to be a child. Sitting on the other side of that red gingham tablecloth, I realize I’m already much freer than she ever got to me, and I have only tasted my freedom very briefly.

The trauma she passed onto me wasn’t anyone’s fault, but whether I like it or not, it is my responsibility.

If I want to be happy, there’s a long and lonely journey ahead of me, which implicitly implies letting go of my mother’s hand and hoping she finds it within her to learn to swim before she sinks. It’s not her fault, either, but it can’t be a weight I carry on my shoulders any longer.

“I forgive you,” I tell her. “But I can’t promise I’ll want any kind of relationship with you.”

She nods, looking down at the ground. It’s more than fair, really. After the road we’ve walked together, it’s a miracle we even made it here, to this restaurant deck on a hot Georgian summer day.

“I’m really proud of you,” she says. “You know that right?”

It’s a knife in my gut. We both know what it means; miraculously, I was stronger than her. Even with all the odds against me, I chose a better way. All the pain she left ignored, she passed to me as well as a fresh batch of new shit to deal with. Even though I haven’t yet got it all figured it out, we both know who I am; if I set my mind to it, I’ll get there.

We both know she doesn’t have that same strength or faith in herself.

As I come into womanhood, she passes the torch to me, cheering for my journey and success, and effectively, giving up and resigning herself to a lifetime of reliving her guilt, shame, and regret.

She wants me to live for the both of us.

Total freedom, total release, and as much love as her broken, never fully formed heart can muster.

“Thank you,” I mumble shyly, quietly taking the torch. Leave it to me hangs unsaid in the air between us.

“Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I’m here for you,” she says. I know she wants to mean it. I also know this help has firm limits and emotional distance baked within.

“I know.”

No matter what it takes, I’ll show you it’s possible.