Rewarded Handsomely

"Maman, just read one more chapter, and you will be rewarded handsomely." Probably my best line, and it wasn't really mine - I'd borrowed from a cartoon rendition of a Hans Christian Anderson tale. It worked - you read a bit more. We often laugh about that memory, but something I never told you is that I am still waiting for the day where I can reward you as handsomely as you deserve. We have the sort of relationship where I can tell you almost anything, and I am grateful for the secrets we already share, the lack of immediate or recent confession options. I'm struck by the pleasant thought that if I had a daughter, I'd want us to relate in the way you and I do.

Hark back to the golden years of youth - the tea I spill now is less than piping, but perhaps like revenge, confession can be a dish best served cold past danger of burning tongue or ear.

When, at thirteen, I stole cigarettes from my aunt (and was promptly caught), what I didn't tell you was that I took them under pressure to share with my new friend group, that I can now admit hated me collectively. I was disbelieving when you stated that that their opinions wouldn't matter someday, but you were quite right.

At 16, I had you make me an appointment with the family doctor to request birth control. I told you (and her) that is was to grow my boobs. Seemed legit. I was, rather, planning my first sexual encounter in what I felt was a responsible manner. Maybe you knew that, and were allowing me to save face, as you did so many times. When I had you drop me off in the woods a month later, to "go to the beach", I was actually to remain in the woods to bring my plan to fruition. You picked me up afterwards and what I didn't tell you then or ever, was that I was I was hugely relieved when you didn't ask me too many questions and embarrass me into the ground.

At around 17, you asked me if I was on drugs, and I dramatically fell from my chair in an attempt to portray my shock and dismay at such an accusation. I was, in fact, on drugs - and it really freaked me out that you could tell. This is the first time I admit it, and I'm still impressed that you clocked me. Not that I was acting particularly lucid, the chair flair being case in point. I've never thanked you for giving me grace in that misguided moment, when you could've backed me into a corner.

The summer before I left for university, I acted like an insufferable brat culminating in a tantrum over a laptop not being pink. You knew what I couldn't admit and didn't hold it against me - for all my bravado, I was terrified to leave home. I couldn't have confessed it then had I wanted to, but the distance became a vessel for realization and attitude adjustment.

Merci. For sticking by me through my prickly learning years, and for becoming my best friend when I was mature enough to appreciate what I had. I'll never stop telling you that I am thankful to be your daughter, to have grown up as my own person with the freedom to make the mistakes I needed to find my way. I wouldn't trade our bond for any handsome fairytale reward in this world, but I still hope to make good on my promise someday.

A last confession: my biggest fear is a life without you. You've created the safest space that I never want to leave and I would comfortably prescribe a mother like you to every living soul. You needn't ever worry about me, though. I feel like a warrior, thanks to you.