Her cruelty and neglect couldn’t stop me from loving her. If only she’d been able to say the same.
Photo: Jose Luis Pelaez/Getty Images
The house I grew up in had a picturesque white picket fence but no other redeeming qualities — except for the kitchen. Everything happened in the kitchen. My grandfather would read two newspapers a day at that kitchen table, and hold “class” there too, teaching me the alphabet and basic math calculations. By the time I turned 4, I knew our address and phone number and that of his sister — Aunt Gertrude — if I ever was lost or needed help.
My grandfather died when I was 7, and my mother’s absence felt suddenly closer, more encompassing. Gone was my meal companion; there was no one to watchon Sunday evenings or wrestling on Monday nights with; but mostly, I missed our lessons at the kitchen table. High school and later college gave me opportunities to reemerge. I made new friends and went out. I kept my home life, particularly in college, separate from who I represented myself to be. I matriculated as anand used a friend’s address and listed them as my emergency contact. If my mother called me on campus, I’d say she was my aunt since we had different last names. This continued, to a degree, after I returned home after college graduation.
When she finally recovered, eventually moving back into her house, I told her, “I hope you stay healthy until you die, because I can’t go through this again.”For the next 15 years, I checked on her occasionally with a short phone call but visited as little as possible. Then around one Mother’s Day, at a greeting-card store, I felt like I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
I did begin visiting my mother more often, though, and I wouldn’t rush to leave as I’d usually done. I attended church with her on special occasions, and every few months we would go to dinner or I would cook something and share it with her.
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