Mom, I forgive you

Dear Mom,

Mother's Day just passed, and I had one of those moments. You know, the moments where I think "I'm going to call Mom," then remember. Remember that I wasn't there at your hospital bed, remember the last time we were together we argued. Remember you never heard me tell you I forgive you.

I forgive you for my childhood. I forgive you for hitting me, for treating me as an incovenience, for abandoning me. I forgive you for all of those things because I know what your childhood was like. I know your mother beat you. I know Grandma and Grandpa dropped you in front of an orphanage as punishment and left you there for over an hour.

I forgive you for saying to Dad, as he was carrying my semi-conscious body down the stairs, "What am I supposed to take tomorrow?" because I had swallowed all your Darvon and Naprosyn in an attempt to die. I forgive you for never visiting me in the psych ward.

I forgive you for being my tormentor for so many years. At some point, maybe before my son was born, maybe after, you and I became friends. Even though you still had unkind moments, I loved you. And I miss you. Not all the time, but enough.

You were the product of violence and abuse, I understand this. I just wish you hadn't chosen to take your pain out on Dad and me. I wish you had loved me when I needed you to.

We had happiness. When I had to work two jobs, you babysat Josh. You taught him to paint, you helped teach him to read, and you loved my son with every part of your heart and soul. It was wonderful to watch the two of you racing wheelchairs around the condo in Virginia, laughing out loud as one or both of you careened into the main bedroom.

You let me move in with you when I left Florida. You were the one who, after the Juilliard stage intern program decided to move me from "accepted" to "alternate" and my heart was broken, suggested I attend culinary school. If I hadn't, I would not have married the wrong man who gave me one good thing: my son.

I have some of the cards you sent me. You called me "sweetcakes," and you had the most beautiful handwriting, even with rheumatoid arthritis. Your art hangs all over our house. I still have three of your sweaters, and the bottle of Opium by YSL sits on my dresser. Sometimes when I dust, I remove the cap and inhale. I see you and Dad, all dressed up for one fancy event or another, and you smell of Opium.

I forgive you, Mom because I'm selfish. You don't know I forgive you, this is all for me, for my mental and emotional wellbeing. I can't call or write you a letter, I can't sit down with you at the kitchen table and say "Mom, I forgive you." You're not here.

I keep waiting for it to stop hurting. It's been fourteen years, and there are still those damn moments. The day my granddaughter was born. When I smell a peony. When Josh got married. So many moments when I wish you were here. I still remember your Reston phone number.

I forgive you for having a lockbox filled with memories of the worst periods of your life. I forgive you for writing that, when I was a kid and wanted to kiss you goodnight, you were angry with me for interrupting whatever you were doing. I forgive you for being a narcissist and a borderline mother, I forgive you for not loving me when I needed you to love me so much it physically hurt.

I forgive you for it all.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I hope wherever you are there are flowers and cats and peace.

Love, Erin