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Mother Mine

Open Letter to The Brave Soul Who Didn't Raise Me

By Christy MunsonPublished 3 years ago Updated 27 days ago 5 min read
Runner-Up in Love Unraveled Challenge
7
Mother Mine
Photo by Sean Bernstein on Unsplash

He took your children from you. Left three gaping holes. Three distinct shapes.

The first, slender and tall for her age, and sweetly shy.

The second, a budding defenseman fond of fishing.

And the third, a tiny thing who still played Barbies and Old Maid.

By Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

We were yours. And then we weren't.

It was a Thursday. January 9th, 1975.

He had us carry brown paper bags, one apiece. Each held our lives.

He never said the camping trip would be one way.

You were running errands. Buying kibble for our dog.

I never saw either of you again.

By Marko Blažević on Unsplash

You must have driven the station wagon, with its memorable brown wood paneling on the sides. You were rolling away from the life you knew--the life I knew too--singing Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds, or You Are My Sunshine, or She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain as you crossed new asphalt on your way across old town.

It was a short trip. Home to Miller's and the Five & Dime and back again. But there'd be no coming back. Everything you loved had vanished.

##

Your husband, my father, was 37. You were newly separated.

He met her at a party. She had brown eyes, brown hair, tiny tits, and she was oh so willing. Just 21. Two divorces to her name. She wanted children. Spat out men who couldn't get her pregnant.

And then she met him. Your pathetic husband.

He had three kids he wasn't using.

##

He stuffed us in his yellow Vega, stopped for gas at our neighborhood Highs. Drove us like it was Easter Sunday, slow and steady, waving to people who thought they knew him.

He was taking us to the far side.

I was too young to know the paths we traveled. Straight down I-95. Felt like we'd left the world and entered a completely different planet.

I never knew how to find my way back.

##

We crammed into her apartment. She bought a Dachshund, named him Max, and then another, and another, and another.

She worked for NADA and kept all her earnings while we ate junk food and the dogs ate like royalty. She couldn't cook. And your husband, well, he was the man. He didn't cook. And no one ever thought to find someone to teach the children.

##

We were 30 miles away from the only life I knew.

I was lost, untethered, like an orphan, only not.

You had always been my anchor.

By Andrew Neel on Unsplash

I know, now, you had it worst.

I cannot imagine how you suffered. I cannot allow myself to feel it. To speak such excruciating truth into existence. How empty you must have felt.

The solitude must have been deafening.

By Philipp Berndt on Unsplash

I imagine you walking through the door to find bitter silence. You went through that abandoned house searching room to room, and then room to room to room to room to room, collapsing in a heap, your chest exploding.

Every day for the rest of your life, every time you awoke, we were still not there.

I imagine puppy paws and goofy boxer head slumped across the threshold to my bedroom.

I hear her sometimes, howling at the moon.

##

For a long time I blamed you. You never found me. Never cared enough to bring me home. I wasn't worth the effort.

##

Your husband played me perfectly. Every hope I had he dashed. Every emotion, more fuel for his fire.

He's to blame. He was the adult.

I was five.

He should have gotten a divorce. Like grown-ups do. Made some, any arrangement. Joint custody. Something.

But he was weak. And he had She Who Does Not Share.

By Kristina Flour on Unsplash

I always knew he took us from you. But then one day I learned to grapple with the fact that he took you from us.

You were amazing. We were taught you were trash.

##

We three siblings grew up together, alone, trapped in his cruel silence. You had no name. No voice. No place in our life. We were taught to never speak your name.

You were a ghost I dreamed of every night til I was nine. Sometimes even now your ghost hands haunt me.

##

In time I believed I imagined you. It was as if you never grew me in your belly. Or nursed me. Or gave me shelter. Or a name. Or sense of purpose. Or a place in your life.

I learned to be without you. I learned who I had to be without a piece of myself.

I hated myself. For loving you, for loving someone who turned her back on her children.

One day I hated you even more than I hated him, or her, or myself. You let this happen. You never loved me enough to come for me. You abandoned my brother and my sister.

Isn't that what a mother is supposed to do -- fight for her babies?

##

I built a wall. Kept you compartmented. Never looked back.

##

What strength you must have had. To endure. To hit your bloody hands against my indifferent walls. There you were, quietly chipping away at my mile-high bricks using nothing but a spoon.

It kills me to think you might have thought that, somewhere, I was laughing.

What fortitude you must have had. What unimaginable strength to carry on. What agency you bore to brave the world.

I tell myself you found your tribe. I believe --I have to believe-- you found your voice. Maybe you even had new and better children with someone who could see the beauty in you.

##

I got the call on a Sunday.

May 21, 2006.

Heart attack. Alone.

In the same house you'd lived in a long time ago, with your husband, and three children you never stopped loving until death took you out of the fight.

##

Today I carry your love with me, like a bird atop my shoulder. A still small voice that sounds a lot like you and and a lot like me. I'm learning how to speak its language.

Too little, too late, I know. But Mom, in the light, I speak your name.

***

Copyright © 04/25/2017 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.

humanity
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About the Creator

Christy Munson

My words expose what I find real and worth exploring. Come along for the ride. Be warned: my voice haunts like cello resonating through bone, sinking into marrow.

Vocal Top Stories: March 2024 | March 2024 | February 2024 | June 2021

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  3. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

  1. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

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Comments (3)

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  • Caroline Craven14 days ago

    Wow. I can’t believe I missed this one. This is one of the best things I’ve ever read. WELL DONE for placing. I can’t believe it didn’t win.

  • Shirley Belk14 days ago

    I'm so sorry that your dad was so selfish. You wrote a beautiful tribute to the love you have for your mother.

  • Laura Lann20 days ago

    The feeling of dread that sank into my stomach grew as I read further and further, then it turned to just sad empathy. I'm sorry for this journey you went through but moved by how you expressed it here. That silent loss of the parent we did not have but could have will always hit hard. This was a brave and beautiful piece.

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