Visiting

Visiting

I stood in the doorway watching my mother. She was sitting in her room, drinking coffee, of course, my whole life with her revolved around making her coffee. She seemed to be reading.

I was hesitant to go in because that’s when I would find out if I was a stranger today, or her disappointing daughter. I preferred being the stranger. She was polite then, chatty, putting on a show. She’d convinced me, growing up, that everybody lived exactly as we did, they just kept it all to themselves pretending to be happy in public. Once I was older, away from her more, her “lessons” began to unravel.

Even when she remembers me now it isn’t so bad, she’s just a shell of her former self. Never vicious anymore, though she can still do a pretty good job on me mentally. I rarely leave on those days without needing an hour in my car to regroup. Hopefully today I would be a stranger.

About to go in, my phone rang. My mother looked up, but then her eyes glazed over in unrecognition. I was safe. I could enjoy my visit, with her in her fake persona, the one I’ve often wished I’d grown up with. I took the moment to answer my phone, it was my husband Michael.

“I’m sorry,” he started, “I forgot you were visiting your mum. Call me back when you leave, love you!

“Love you too.” I answered.

Love you. I love you. I’d spent eighteen years not knowing what that meant. Thanks to Michael I knew now. I walked in to visit with the lady I actually did love in spite of all those years. Although, I’ll admit, a little happier that today I would be a kindly stranger, and the visit would be pleasant.