I've Been Afraid to Tell You

"If you want to be my new mommy, you can wear my mother's veil."

Do you remember the day I proposed to you? I was almost five years old. My mother had died when I was three, and daddy brought you home to meet us.

My brother and I had been abused by our live-in housekeeper; the older woman trusted to take care of two small children for the grieving widower. You were kind. Young. Talked softly to us.

I don't know what you expected that day but I'm pretty sure it wasn't a proposal of marriage, or rather- motherhood, from an almost five year old girl. But, there it was.

I believe I was the first person in the family to propose to you. My dad followed shortly, and you said 'yes'.

I used to think that you had said yes to me, first. But I don't remember what you said or did. I do know that you didn't take me up on the offer of the veil- you used one you bought yourself and saved the one from my mother for me, for my own wedding.

That proposal, though? The day I asked you to be my mother? That was a warm and happy memory.

Until the day I realized you didn't accept it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I was in high school and a classmate told us she was adopted. I'd never met someone that had been adopted before. Up until then it had been something for abandoned babies or orphaned Shirley-Temple-esque waifs in black and white movies. I wondered if they had searched for their birthmother. Maybe they were secretly royalty? Details, please!

There was no backstory, though. They had been adopted by their stepmother, so they were now legally mother and child.

Wait- what? Why would a stepparent adopt their child?

And that is the day I realized you had not accepted my proposal. Not really. Not legally.

For years I had bristled when my maternal grandparents had referred to you by your first name. "You mean my mom," I would say. (Not truly understanding the pain that likely caused them.) I was loyal to you.

You were my mother, after all. Just as you were to my brothers and sisters. Those brothers and sisters that I now realized were my brother, step-brother, and step-sisters. Legally.

That day, those many years ago, I came home from school and asked you if you had adopted my brother and I once you and dad married. I was clinging to hope that maybe it was something paperwork-y that was too mundane to have shared with young children. Maybe it was handled during the marriage legalities. Maybe it was already done and nothing changed.

No. You said "No".

You said it was too expensive. It wasn't necessary. No need. You said no.

I had stopped listening to your words. Our story, the time I had proposed to you. The day I chose you as my mother. The meaning of that story changed and I felt like a fool.

I kept thinking about it being 'too expensive', and in my mind's ear I heard 'you aren't worth that expense'. As an adult I know that isn't what you meant... although even still I wonder if it's just the habit of championing you and claiming you as my mother, still?

It still hurts

Now that dad is gone, so are you. Living states away I want to reach out but the silence is a wall that I am afraid to pound on. How can you let me drift away? Why does it not matter to have me in your life? What did those 14 years we lived together before I married and left mean to you?

How do you describe me? Do you describe me? Do you think of me? These are questions I want to ask you, but I am afraid of the answers.

I've been afraid to tell you: I miss you. I miss who I thought you were to me. I miss who I thought I was to you.

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