Relationships are Fragile

It’s been 21 years since my mother broke up with me. She took her voice, my dad, and many of the people I called Aunty and Uncle with her. Why would they dump me like a hot potato on my mother’s say so? She is powerful in her fury and relentless in her retribution. If they wanted to keep her, they had to fall in line. And fall in line they did.

My mother and I had been, as we say in Jamaica, “batty and bench.” We talked every day, sometimes twice a day. But things started going off the track when I had my kids and my mother was no longer the centre of my world.

When it first happened, I was devastated. I cried and cried and cried and cried. And then I cried some more. It took about three years to mourn the loss of my mother and father. I still miss my dad. My mom, not so much.

When my cousin committed suicide, my parents flew to Vancouver to her funeral. I told my husband I was sure my mom would contact me when she got back. Watching my aunt destroyed by the loss of her daughter, my mother was sure to feel the loss too. And sure enough, when she returned she said she wanted to come and see me. I said, “Sure.”

She came. She wanted to know if there was anything in my life for which I was resentful towards her. The woman who promised to love me forever, who preached

‘blood is thicker than water’ and ‘family first’ wanted to know if I had something I was angry at her for. Then she reassured me that if I needed anything, I could call her.

I reminded her that she had changed her telephone number and forbidden people from giving it to me. She laughed and nodded. Yes, she had. When she left, she still hadn’t given me her number. I was not surprised.

Because I am depressive, because my cousin killed herself while being treated for depression, my mother wanted to make sure that if I killed myself she wouldn’t be on the hook for pounds and pounds of guilt. My poor Catholic mother. If only she had known that having grieved for years for the loss of her heart I was so over her.

Relationships are fragile. Even the ones you think of as permanent aren’t. If anyone had told me even a year before our breakup that my mother and I would one day never speak to each other again, I would not have believed it. Yet, here we are, 21 years later and my mother is not in my life. She’s missed my children. She’s missed helping me with the challenges I faced when I found out my child was autistic. She’s missed watching me grow into a fierce, strong and determined woman.

My daughter was devastated by the loss of my mother. We went on holiday to the Bahamas and Alex, who was about four at the time, kept telling her story to every single adult she could corner at the swimming pool. She was working it out. And I let her. My husband would return from fetching us drinks, sit beside me on the edge of the pool and laughingly say, “Is she telling her story again?” Yes she was. Later on the same trip Alex said to me, “What kind of mother doesn’t talk to her own child?” My response was to explain that Grandma was nuts. There was no other reasonable explanation. Normal people do not withdraw their speech forever over seemingly trivial issues.

My mother was in fact mad at my husband for something he’d said, and furious at me for not choosing her over him. I chose no one. I told her I wasn’t doing schoolyard anymore. She chose to leave. When I finally separated after 18 years, she attempted a reunion, which I was happy for only because it meant I got my dad back. But it was short-lived, since I wasn’t down for the negativity and judginess that were my mother’s repertoire.

My son turned 22 this year. What a man he is: kind, gentle, strong. My daughter will be 25 in the fall. Another kind, strong and determined woman. I’ve been a great – seriously great – parent, thanks to my mother. She taught me about what was important and what wasn’t. And I’m grateful for the lessons because her betrayal, along with everything good she taught me, made me who I am today.

Four-year-old Alex and I made a promise on that holiday. We promised we would never let happen to us what happened to my mother and me. No matter how pissed we get with each other, even when we need a break, we never miss the opportunity to say (or text), “I love you. Give me few days.”

It was some years later that I discovered that my maternal great grandmother died not speaking to my grandmother; my grandmother died not speaking to my mother. Look! A family trait. And my mother will die not speaking to me. But Alex and I have promised, tested and held to the conviction that this will NOT happen to us.

Twenty one years ago my mother withdrew her speech and left me broken-hearted and angry. How dare she! How dare she break her promise to love me forever. And yet, in doing so, my mother gave me a lesson in what love is. And I am so grateful for that lesson.