When my mother reached out last September, I was taken aback by how familiar her voice still sounded. It had been a lifetime since my father had banished her from our home and, effectively, from my life.
She became a ghostly figure in our family lore, someone who was discussed in hushed tones, as if I wouldn’t overhear the whispers.
I caught a glimpse of her during my teenage years, but I was too scared to confide in my dad. Then, in my twenties, as a mother myself, I had another chance to see her. She met my little girls, and we attempted to reconnect, but it was clumsy and awkward. Although we bore a striking resemblance, we were essentially strangers.
How could I possibly weave her back into my life, a life that had been carefully constructed in her absence? My father was still present, and I struggled to find the words to tell him I was reaching out to her. So, I did what felt safest: I distanced myself from my mother.
She expressed her pain, saying, “I think your father is controlling you just like he controlled me.” To which I snapped, “Well, you’re the one who left me with him!”
After that fragile attempt to reconnect, she moved to Arizona, and just like that, two decades slipped by.
Fast forward to last September, when she flew to Massachusetts because her mother, my grandmother, was nearing the end of her life. On the Wednesday before Labor Day, she called. I asked about my grandmother and how her flight from Arizona had been. I felt a sense of urgency to arrange a visit; after all, this might be our last chance. If not now, then when?
I proposed to drive to my grandmother’s house the very next day, where my mother was staying. She agreed, and we hung up.
The next morning, I rifled through my closet. What does one wear to see their mother after two decades?
It was a stunning, sunny day as I drove to my grandmother’s place. When my mother answered the door, I couldn’t help but think how beautiful she still was. She was real—not a myth, not a figment of my imagination, but my actual mother.
That day, I also saw my grandmother and my aunt, both of whom had been casualties of my parents’ divorce. They embraced me like I was finally coming home.
My mother and I chatted about the weather, my grandmother’s impending departure, my grown daughters, family resemblances, and her quiet life in Arizona. I yearned to discuss the lost years and confront all that had happened, but I could see her pain was still raw. The tears that welled in her eyes at the slightest mention of the past told me everything.
I felt her regret, so immense it seemed it could consume her. I wanted to tell her I wished she would return to Massachusetts. I wanted to make up for lost time and introduce her to my husband and daughters. I didn’t want her living 2,572 miles away for another day, but instead, I asked, “Don’t you miss the ocean?”
When it was time to leave, we hugged and expressed how happy we were to have shared that day. We agreed to stay in touch, though we made no promises about future visits, knowing she would soon fly back to her life in Arizona.
Now, we occasionally chat on the phone, still getting to know one another. I keep it light for her sake, but during our last conversation, I felt compelled to address the past. “I know you intended to take me with you when I was four. That was your plan. You told me so back then. I remember.”
A long pause followed, and tears were shed. She seemed relieved that I understood. “I love you,” she said. “I always have.” I responded with, “I love you too,” and then promptly asked about her day.
Rebuilding a relationship after so many years of absence is challenging, but it feels like a step toward healing. The journey is just beginning, and I’m hopeful for what’s to come.
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Summary
The author recounts a poignant reunion with her mother after decades apart due to parental alienation, exploring themes of regret, reconnection, and the complexities of family dynamics. The journey of rebuilding their relationship is fraught with emotional challenges but filled with hope for the future.