They Say Confession's Good For The Soul

Dear Mom,

To say our relationship was complicated would be an understatement. In fact, there have been times in my life I was certain I'd never miss you when you were gone. Oddly enough, I do.

They say confession is good for the soul, that it can help a person heal old wounds and move on. Well, I have a lot of old wounds, many that you inflicted on me. And many I inflicted on you.

I think you know that I loved you. I mean, you were my mother, I'm supposed to love you. But the truth is, for most of my life I didn't like you. I'm sure this comes as no surprise to you. You didn't like me either.

You said so enough. I still remember the day you screamed at me. I was 5.

You were angry because I had gotten into some boxes you'd stored in my closet. They were part of your hoard. You told me, your brown eyes full of anger that you never wanted me. You told me you were forced to take me. You told me Daddy made you adopt me. And you repeated it over and over again whenever you were mad at me, which was a lot, for decades.

You held me up as a poor excuse for a child against your shining biological son. He was obedient. He was quiet. He was musical. I was unruly, loud and tone-deaf.

But you did your duty. I was well cared for. I was fed. I was clean. I was clothed. And I had the "whitest diapers on the clothesline." People, according to you, would stop and compliment you on that and ask for laundry tips.

You admitted relishing in people marvelling at how cute I was. You loved showing off my reading skills to the officers' wives on our military base. You loved writing to your sisters about all my academic and sporting achievements.

But if I got out of line... Well then the tale was different. I'd hear all about how I was unwanted. How I didn't measure up. How you were going to send me away to the "bad girls' home."

Do you remember me sitting on the steps by the basement in tears, begging you not to send me away as you held the phone to your ear? I'm sure you must, you did it several times. I was a kid. I had no idea there was no one on the line. I had no idea there was no bad girls' home to send me to.

Maybe you didn't mean to, but you damaged me. You hurt me. I grew up never feeling like I was good enough. I grew up in constant confusion with one parent who thought I owned the moon and another that thought I was the embodiment of evil.

I had no identity. I had no sense of self-worth. I had nothing but fear, loathing and manipulation. I used them all. And I guess here's where the confession gets juicy.

I remember you bragging about how you never allowed Daddy to touch you after my brother was born some 15 years before I showed up. You firmly believed that sex was for one purpose and one purpose only, and that purpose wasn't pleasure. You bore him one child and you were done. Such is your right, I suppose.

But there's the thing, I was Daddy's mini-me. I went everywhere with him. EVERYWHERE. I saw how women looked at him. I saw how he looked at them.

I found an opportunity and I took it! I was about 13 when it all came into focus for me. You may not have been meeting Daddy's needs, but someone, or a few someones, were.

I caught him at the mall, chatting a little too comfortably with a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and pink pants. I saw how his eyes suddenly widened. I saw how he shifted in his seat. I heard how he stammered, searching for words, any words that would cover his tracks. And I saw him reach for his wallet and give me a nice crisp $20 bill to get rid of me.

Twenty bucks was pretty good coin in 1984. I could eat all I wanted, buy some books and a couple of 45s. I took the money and an unspoken arrangement that would last for years was born.

I'd show up at his usual haunts, knowing I'd find him. if he was alone, I'd get $5. But if he happened to be with a female companion, the price rose to $20. I got pretty good at timing the high yield days.

I made a fortune as his accomplice. And I never said boo to you about it. At the time, I figured, if you weren't giving him any, well, whatever. I also just didn't like you. I wanted you gone. I was hoping he'd fall for one of the other women and leave you and take me with him.

That never happened. Oh, and while we're at it, if I'm going to be totally honest, I was a teenager, a self-serving, hedonistic teenager that would sell out her own mother for lunch money and the latest WHAM album. Actually, I did.

I sold you out for lunches, clothes, records, tapes, posters, concert tickets, you name it. I had zero, ZERO loyalty to you because I felt you had none to me.

I thought about telling you years later, as we got closer. It wasn't until Daddy died that you seemed to appreciate me, even a little bit. You fell apart and needed someone to lean on, someone logical, someone who could get things done. That was me.

Our relationship was largely superficial in those years immediately after his death. We'd talk about the neighbours or about soap operas or some TV show. You were always mad about how Sharon was acting on the Young and The Restless. You were pissed as hell when Felicity cut her hair. That was pretty much it for us.

Except for your grandchildren, my boys. You showered them with love and kisses and cuddles from the time they were born. You never kissed me. Never. Not once. You died without kissing me. Think about that. But your grandchildren, it was a lovefest.

Don't worry, your secret is safe with me as far as they're concerned. I've never told them about how things were with us. All they know is the jolly granny who dished out Sunny D, Green Crush and cookies like it was Mardi Gras, along with hugs, kisses and money.

I didn't do it for you. I didn't do it for you. I did it for them.

As you got older, more frail, more needy, we became closer. I took care of you. You started to show some positive feelings toward me.

When I became a lawyer, you showed real pride in me for the first time ever. I was 38. And I revelled in it. I was a 38-year-old woman-child basking in her mommy's approval.

One of my favourite memories of you was when you were in the hospital. I was there, as was my brother. The lady in the adjacent bed asked you who the handsome young man was.

You replied, in your characteristic quippy kind of way, and said, "never mind him, he's just a taxi driver, but my daughter, she's a woman lawyer!" You went on to brag all about how I'd borne 3 children, was in my 40s and was still thin. You bragged about all the international trips I'd taken and the gifts I brought home for you. You did that all while your son, the former golden child, stood by with a fake grin plastered on his face.

I should have felt bad for him. I didn't. Instead, I felt good for me. Finally, I was the one you recognized. Finally, I was the one you celebrated. I didn't give a crap about his feelings in that moment. Wow, I do kinda suck, don't I?

But now that you're gone, I've had time to reflect. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe there were things I didn't understand. I know there were. I'm not saying you were right in your actions, but I am saying that the things I've learned as an adult have softened me and my judgment of you.

Looking back, it's obvious now that you were a damaged person. You suffered some trauma. I'm not sure what exactly. What I do know is that you have a daughter, D. who lives in Montreal, who was born well before you were married in 1954.

I remember her calling the house and you freaking out and telling her never to call again. It was obviously painful for you. She never called again. But, I've creeped her on social media, this D. and she looks just like you.

I'm not sure if you made a mistake or if someone did something to you. I'll never know now.

You were 43 when you adopted me. Your only other child was 15. You were almost home free. Then, bam, your husband asks you to take in his brother's kid.

It was 1971. You didn't exactly have a choice, did you? You had no job skills. Your entire life was being a wife and mother. You were showing signs of being agoraphobic and a hoarder.

Add to that your need to keep up appearances. You always worried about what the White community would think of our family.

I know you had good reason. Being Black and coming of age in small-town Canada in the 30s and 40s wasn't easy. You learned fast and hard not to make waves or draw attention to yourself. So when White social workers and Daddy's commanding officers said he could have me, you grudgingly went along.

You, in a very real sense, DID have no choice. I get that now. And at 50, I can't say I'd have done it. The prospect of starting over with an infant of 3 weeks when I'm menopausal. Yeah, no thanks. Never going to happen. I'm tired. I did my time.

The idea of staring down the barrel at 70 before I have a moment to myself? No. I don't think I could do it. I so get it now!

Add to that the times. You had your precious son in 1956. You were able to raise him in that old-fashioned "seen and not heard, because I said so" kind of way.

The most radical things he ever did were to start a band, which practised in your basement and grow an 18-inch afro. He inherited your personality and your need to follow the rules. He never made waves.

I WAS waves. I came along in 1971. I was a child of the 80s. The world changed rapidly and you weren't prepared. In fact, it scared you to death. You had no idea how to live in a world where children had voices and the word "sex" was said outright in songs.

You had no idea what to do with me. I inherited my father's (and my birth mother's) strong will. I was argumentative. I refused to take no for an answer. I stood in your face and defied and disrespected you. You knew of no other tool than brute force and cruelty to quell my opposition.

But the harder you pushed, the harder I pushed back because that's who I was. That's who I am, and you came to love and even like that in me.

We had some great times. It wasn't all bad. You gave me great advice over the years and you always had my back against teachers at school, even when I may have been in the wrong.

I wish I hadn't been so harsh now. I wonder if I shouldn't have kept Daddy's secrets. Would telling you really have served any purpose? I thought I was hurting you by keeping his dalliances quiet. But now I wonder, was I inadvertently protecting you? Was there something in me, amidst all the anger and resentment that felt a need to protect her mommy?

I guess we'll never know. But at least we had a few good years, eh? I still hear your voice coming out of my mouth when I give the same advice you gave me. My boys still speak fondly of their days with their favourite grandmother. And we speak of you often. You'll never be forgotten.

I love you, and now, I like you too,

The daughter you never wanted but got anyway.