Saying Farewell to My Estranged Mother

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My mother passed away with a few stray whiskers on her chin. I noticed them while sitting with her body just over two hours after she left this world. Those white whiskers became undeniable evidence that I was a terrible daughter. What kind of daughter allows her mother to die with facial hair?

As I sat there, cradling her now-cool hand, stroking her arms, and brushing her hair, I wept. I cried for the whiskers and all they represented. I mourned the years we missed together, and I grieved for the moments that were lost and those that could have been.

Tears fell onto her hospital bed as I spoke to her, hoping some part of her was still there, still listening, a remorseful daughter begging for forgiveness. Memories crept in, filling the silence: My mom reading to me in bed, allowing me to help sew sequins onto our holiday crafts, letting me run wild with the neighborhood kids, and patiently detangling my hair.

But there were darker memories too, lurking in the corners of my mind. The fights between her and her husband, the chaotic holiday dinners that ended in chaos, and the silence while a man she chose over us hurt me as I hid beneath my bed. I wanted to focus on the good, but the bad demanded to be acknowledged. I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering for those painful memories to leave me alone, just for now.

Two years prior, I made the difficult choice to stop all contact with her. Being with her meant being around him, the man who had taken so much from us. I’d even tried to help her escape him, going as far as involving the police. It became painfully clear that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

In her last years, she became increasingly vulnerable, confined to what used to be my room, her world reduced to four grimy walls, a blaring TV, and a laptop. Visiting her turned into a personal struggle; every part of me cried out for justice — for her, for the little girl I once was, for all mothers and daughters who longed for a better relationship.

There were countless unanswered phone calls, birthdays, and holidays that slipped by unnoticed. We were two souls entangled in a web of hurt, betrayal, and resentment.

When her health took a sharp downturn a month ago, I received a voicemail from him, warning me that time was running out. He told me I’d have to live with myself if I didn’t come see her. So, one night, I took three of my four kids to the hospital where they were born, and where my mom would ultimately take her last breath.

As we gathered around her, I gently touched her shoulder and said, “Mom, it’s me. I brought the kids.” Her eyes flickered open, revealing a universe of pain and sorrow. In that moment, the anger that had built an impenetrable wall around my heart crumbled. I told her how deeply sorry I was, how much of a mess I had become, and I begged for her forgiveness.

I whispered, “Maybe we will get a second chance somewhere else, and then we will get it right.” I told her, “I love you, Mom. Please, forgive me.” I promised to love my children fiercely and vowed never to let anyone hurt them.

The nurse who had been with her at the end sat with me, tears streaming down her face. She reassured me that my mom had gone peacefully, surrounded by love. This kind woman, who cared for my mother in her final moments, embraced me and told me that my mom surely knew I loved her.

That night, as my daughter and I drove home from a shopping trip, an overwhelming urge washed over me to lay my head on my mother’s lap. I could almost feel the warmth of her hand on my hair, the softness of her embrace. According to the nurse’s timeline, this sensation hit me just as my mom was slipping away. My heart ached, believing this was my mom reaching out, assuring me it was okay, and that she cherished our sweet memories just as much as I did.

Perhaps it was her final goodbye.
I love you, Mom. And I’m so sorry.