My sister and I arrived at our mother’s house on a Wednesday, ready for our scheduled stay with her. Although tears were a familiar sight in her eyes, that day they felt unusually heavy.
“Girls, come to the living room. We need to talk.”
That was enough of a warning for me. I braced myself, a reflex born from the day she had dramatically whisked us away from our father’s home. As she began to sob, I wrapped my arms around her, trying to ease her pain. “I’m here for you, Mom.”
“We’re bankrupt, your stepfather and I, and we have to move. We’ll be leaving for Oklahoma on Friday, so you’ll be living with Dad.”
In just two days, she was moving away, leaving us behind. Despite her increasingly erratic behavior over the years, this news hit me like a freight train.
Mothers don’t just leave. I had always thought that the bond created from her bringing me into the world would keep her tied to me. But reality was crashing down, and I forced myself to suppress the pain, hiding my feelings. While I didn’t blame myself for her departure, I couldn’t help but wonder why I wasn’t enough to make her stay.
Despite the imminent distance, I held onto hope. Surely, she would still be my mother, just a phone call away.
What does one do with just 48 hours left with their mother? I tried to think of a plan for our final night together. I approached her in the kitchen, but before I could speak, she blurted out, “I’m going to visit Ava. She really needs me.”
Her words hit me like a slap. This midlife crisis woman was leaving me on our last night together. I nodded, swallowing my emotions, as she suggested we use the evening to pack for our transition to Dad’s place.
I don’t remember her returning that night. I woke up the next morning, the alarm blaring, realizing Friday had arrived, and her flight was only hours away.
My sister walked to her school nearby while I packed my things in our mother’s car for the final drop-off. The silence was suffocating. To break it, she turned up the music, but soon, her sobs echoed against the notes. “I’m not worried about you. I’m only worried about your sister. Promise me you’ll take care of her.”
I promised. Stoically, I grabbed my backpack, opened the door, and hugged her tightly, telling her I loved her. She returned the sentiment but never mentioned a plan to call once she settled into her new life.
I stumbled into school, feeling like a ghost in a place where I had no friends. The bell rang, marking the end of my mother’s presence in my life.
Dad sent a coworker to pick me up that afternoon, and I felt the sting of embarrassment at needing a ride. It wasn’t just Dad’s busy schedule that hurt; it was his emotional indifference. Our plan was to collect our things from Mother’s vacant house, and she would return the following week to grab her furniture.
As my sister and I tried to lift each other’s spirits, dancing to Michael Jackson as if we were at a celebration instead of a funeral for the life we once knew, the sun began to set. Dad was running late, and as hunger began to set in, so did a wave of anger towards our mother for leaving us alone.
I rummaged for the car keys and told my sister to get in. I was determined to get us food. I had always been the obedient child, but with no parents to care for us, I felt it was time to break some rules.
Anxiously, I took back roads to the nearest fast-food joint, terrified someone would catch me—this young girl stealing her mother’s car. After we got our food, I took a sharp turn off the main road, and my drink went flying everywhere.
“You idiot!” I scolded myself as I tried to clean up the mess. I would confess to my mother about the car ride later, only to have her brush it off, boasting, “I’ve done worse.”
Weeks later, I called her, missing her terribly. “What do you need?!” her voice was harsh. I stuttered, “I just wanted to talk.” She didn’t have time, and I began to realize her role as my mother had ended the day she left.
What did I need? I didn’t need a ride to dance class, dinner, or even advice. I just needed a mother. So, I stopped calling, except when nostalgic waves would wash over me, reminding me of what I longed for.
Each time the phone rang, I hoped for a connection, yet the woman who answered felt like a stranger. Something had shifted. Was it her, or was it my memory twisting? I craved that bond, but she insisted she hadn’t changed, and guilt trips rained down, making me question everything.
I had forgiven her for leaving, but the woman she had become was unrecognizable. After another divorce, she sold her belongings and began wandering with a man battling addiction, claiming to be a “Gypsy” living off the land.
There were stretches of time where I had no way of contacting her. I began to consider that perhaps she suffered from mental illness, one that neither of us understood. Updates came sporadically, and each time she reached out, I mourned the loss of her all over again.
In therapy, I learned families can grieve the loss of a loved one to untreated mental health issues, and I too loved someone who was a casualty of such struggles. I wanted to reach her, but she remained unreachable, a phantom of the mother I once knew.
Years later, my sister and I visited her on an island where she sought happiness. On a public submarine tour, she appeared familiar, yet distant. I turned to find her sobbing at the bottom of a staircase, and as people walked past, my heart broke.
“Mom…” I whispered to my sister, unsure of what to do. “Let her be,” my sister replied. I wasn’t okay.
Eventually, we helped her up, but once more, I slipped back into the caretaker role, and my hope faded again. Trauma seemed to pass through generations, leading me into relationships that echoed the pain of the past.
I realized I didn’t have a mother who participated in my life, and accepting this was my only way forward. Watching other daughters with their mothers felt unfair, and the longing for what I never had deepened my sorrow.
Where was she? Traumas and untreated illness took her from me.
Memories of who she once was lingered, yet I felt her drifting further away. “She is dancing away from you now. She was just a wish, and her memory is all that is left for you now.”
Maybe one day, we will meet again, free from our traumas, standing face to face with nothing but love. Until then, I will learn to mother myself, nurturing the lost child within me.