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You’re a grown man, now, Mason. I see it. And a part of me is sad. Sad that I can give you nothing more, but these three words: I was wrong.
Mason, I see you and I see the way you keep love at a distance. I see the way you never hold onto anyone too tightly. I see the way you move through people like water through rapids, just passing through.
You’re a grown man and I’m an old woman. You’re at the start of your life and I’m at my end. But one day you too will be old, you too will be at your end. And I pray you take this advice before it’s too late:
Forgive yourself, my dear.
For so long, I withheld my forgiveness toward your mother. But it was never her who needed the forgiveness: it was me. For so long, I concealed in anger what I was really feeling: guilt.
Guilt at not being a good enough mother to convince my daughter to stay. Guilt at not loving her enough that she knew what love was. Guilt at not being there enough for her that she knew she had to do the same for her child. Guilt at just not being enough. Because a good mother raises a good daughter and a good daughter doesn’t leave her baby. So guilt at not being a good enough mother myself.
Forgiveness for myself has been hard. And I’m not sure I’ve fully reached that point. Maybe that’s why I’ve put off giving you this letter, these letters, for so long. I’ve promised myself to give them to you when you return from Vegas with the boys. I’ve promised a few times before, but I mean it this time. It’s that important, Mason. It is.
If you can’t forgive yourself, you can’t ever forgive anyone else. If you can’t forgive yourself, you can’t ever love anyone else.
So this is me loving you, Mason, or trying very hard to, at least. This is me forgiving myself. Forgiving my daughter in turn. And praying that when the time comes, you forgive yourself as well, for whatever it is.
If I’ve kept my promise and you’re reading this after your trip to Vegas, I’ve put two aspirin and a glass of water for your hangover on the bedside table. (You always do drink too much.) The bottle of whiskey is for when you read your mother’s letters, knowing she is gone now. (I do see the irony of chastising you for your liquor consumption and then supplying it, but I’ll make this exception. Because it’s hard. But it’s necessary, my dear.)
I love you. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but I’ve always tried my best to love you.
Let’s make that the start, shall we? I love you, Mason.
- Nan
I tried to remember what happened to that bottle of whiskey. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I downed it in one night after her death. If I shattered it against the wall. If I poured it out over her grave as I cursed myself. Hated myself. Vowed to never fucking forgive myself.
Whatever its fate, it was gone now. That was for sure. So when the tears dried well enough to drive, I went to the liquor store and bought another. Then I went home and cracked it open, not even bothering with a glass. I kept my nan’s letter beside me, there against my thigh like a comforting hand as I opened my mother’s first letter.
And began to read.
