Chapter 13 - Mom And I Did Not Try To Recover Twenty Years In Twenty Days
Once Martha was legally confirmed as my mother, people around us expected a reunion.
The word sounded too easy.
We did not reunite.
We met.
Again and again.
The first week, we spent two hours together.
The second week, one.
Sometimes conversation flowed.
Sometimes it failed completely.
I had questions that sounded accusing even when I did not mean them that way.
“Why didn’t you try harder?”
Mom had answers that sometimes hurt.
“I did.”
“Not enough.”
“I know.”
Other days she asked about my childhood and I became angry for reasons I could barely explain.
She wanted to know my first boyfriend.
Graduation.
College.
Wedding.
Dad’s funeral.
Every question reminded me she had missed it.
Then I would see her face and remember she had missed it too.
Not voluntarily.
Not entirely.
Therapy helped.
Separate therapy first.
Then together.
Mom moved into a modest apartment funded initially through an interim trust arrangement approved by Victoria and her lawyer.
Not my house.
That was intentional.
She needed a home that did not make her feel like my dependent.
I needed a relationship that did not begin with becoming her rescuer.
We started with lunch.
Then walks.
Then photo albums.
One afternoon, I showed her a picture from my high-school graduation.
She touched the corner.
“You looked like Charles.”
“I hated when people said that.”
She laughed.
“So did he.”
That was the first time Dad became someone we could both remember without the room collapsing.
Later, Mom showed me the scar near her hairline from the crash.
I showed her the pendant.
She held it carefully.
“I thought I wore this that day.”
“Dad said you didn’t.”
“Maybe he was right.”
Then she smiled faintly.
“Memory is rude.”
May you like
I laughed.
That moment felt more like finding my mother than the DNA report did.
