I saw a post on Instagram today, written by a daughter about her mother. She often heard people talking about how mothers love their children. She didn't experience that because her own mother was cruel. Trying to explain her mother to other people often ended in them repeating platitudes she had heard all of her adult life. People with a loving mother can't imagine what it's like, she said, to grow up without the steady and sure love of a mother.
The post was hard to read. My mother could be fun. We often laughed together. But just when you felt safe and unguarded, she'd unleash a whammy - a cutting remark that tore into your soul and had you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself. She masked cruelty with humor. I was just kidding, she'd say, why are you so sensitive?
It was the same for all four of us. But we didn't discover that until she was on her deathbed. She put so much energy into keeping us apart that we each thought we were the only victim. In our 60s and 70s now, we timidly share our stories and commiserate with each other. But each of us is waiting, it seems, for the other shoe to drop. I love them, but I can't quite trust them. Her legacy.
