How the Light Gets In

by Joyce Maynard

A good mother. Who even knows what that is? For nine months, you carry a child in your body. Then you give birth to this person, and they depend on you (for a while anyway) for every single thing in their life, including their survival. What they need: not only food, warmth, safety, diapers, baths, sunshine, fresh air, milk—also comfort, reassurance, protection, encouragement, vigilance, stamina, compassion. Money. Love. You teach them what

bread is, and milk, and a ball, a dog, a helicopter, a tree, a car, a lawn mower, a cell phone, a gun. They look to you to tell them about everything, basically. The whole wide world. The meaning of everything. As if you knew. Every year on their birthday you bake a cake for this person you gave birth to, and at Christmas you fill their stocking, after driving around for hours in terrible traffic probably—a blizzard?—to find the one toy they want more

than any other. You teach them letters, numbers, colors . . . the names of vegetables, how to ride a bicycle, how to swim, how to make friends, what sex is. You teach them that someday everybody dies, but in their case (you pray) not for a very long time. You teach them what’s the right thing to do. How to treat people. When they get this wrong, you give them another ch...

and maybe sometimes they wake up with a bad dream, which means you need to be there once again, to tell them it’s all right. Even if it isn’t always going to be, you need to say it. Here is this thing called life, you say. Now go out into the world and live yours. I’ll be here, looking out for you. No matter what, I’ll be here. It’s an impossible jo...

and possibly fail miserably. Your child will suffer disappointments. Some, caused by you. You promised to stay married to her father, but you don’t. You told her life was fair, but it isn’t. You wanted her to believe people were mostly good. Then someone really bad came along. Or just someone who hurts them badly. Your child will be angry at you sometimes. You ...

may pour a glass of wine over your head or stuff a fancy cake you just finished making into the garbage. You may go crazy now and then. You may get angry at your child’s father. You may say things you wish you hadn’t. This child you’ve raised may forgive you. Or she may not. On Mother’s Day, she may send you a card telling you what a...

as a victim of toxic parenting, she has recognized her profound need for boundaries. She may inform you, in this text message, that this will be her final communication with you. She’s severing your relationship. Don’t call. Don’t write. No, she does not want to go into therapy with you. She may break your heart. You’re a bad mother. You’re a good mother. You...

make it up to this child whose life you ruined. You didn’t get to be a mother. You did, but you wished you didn’t. You wish you could do it over, but you can’t. You were given this person to take care of—egg, sperm, nine months gestation, labor. The easy part. It’s all the rest that got you in tr...