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If this is an act, it’s far better than any of her prior skits. Looking her over closely, I can’t help but actually believe that what she’s saying is the truth.
It would explain a lot.
“We moved from hotel to hotel when I was a kid, usually one step ahead of the law, and I guess when I’m under stress, I go with what I know.”
I rear back in my seat, stunned. This is the first time I’ve heard any of this. I never knew a thing about my maternal grandparents. It wasn’t something that was discussed. I vaguely remember my parents arguing about them once, but she shut that shit down quick and my father, being the pushover to her that he was, dropped it.
She sees the look on my face. “Ask me anything,” she says.
I chew on my bottom lip, sorting through the list of questions filling my head. I finally land on one.
“Is your mother still alive?’
She shrugs. “I have no idea, and I wouldn’t know how to find her if she is, because she flies under the radar and uses fake names. I’m not sure I actually know what her real name was. She left me in a group home when I was fifteen.”
When she says she resorts to what she knows, she isn’t kidding. If not for my dad, I likely would’ve ended up the same way.
I make a mental note to actually hug my father next time I see him. I don’t care how weak that makes me sound.
“We stopped getting along, I think because I’m too much like her, and I wasn’t little and cute enough to be helpful with her scams.”
Holy shit.
“That’s… horrible.” I shake my head, unable to comprehend how anyone could treat their kids like these women do.
That’s a million times worse than what I experienced growing up. I mean, yeah, I had a workaholic dad, but he loved me. He set a good example for me by being hardworking and moral and responsible. We lived in the same house my entire life, and he was fiercely protective of me but also wouldn’t hesitate to read me the riot act if I was screwing up.
I think of the loneliness she must have felt. The fear. How hard it would be to know how to do the right thing when you never had someone acting as a moral compass.
“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely.
She nods. “I appreciate that. Still doesn’t excuse what a lousy mother I was.”
“No, but it explains it, and that helps a lot. I spent most of my life feeling like there was something wrong with me because you abandoned me, and what kind of kid was I that my own mother didn’t want me?” Emotion swells up in my throat and threatens to choke me.
The waiter sets down our coffees and plates and quickly withdraws. The smell of the food makes me faintly ill. After everything that’s been said, I’m not sure I can stomach food.
My mother stirs her tea but doesn’t drink it. We sit silently, neither looking up from our drinks for several minutes.
“I will spend the rest of my life regretting what I did to you,” she says, staring down at the table. “What can I do to make it up to you? If the answer is to stay away forever, if my being around you hurts, I will leave. It will break my heart, but I’ll leave.”
“That’s ... no. I mean, maybe ... maybe we could go to a few family therapy sessions together. Might do you some good too.”
I know, I know, I am a manly man who beats up other manly men for a living, but I’ve found that talking things out has made a world of difference in my life. I can’t count the number of times I almost walked into a liquor store or headed to a bar, then let my sober coach talk me down.
Her face brightens. “I’d love that so much.” She picks up her tea and sips it, perking up visibly. I feel good about that.
I mean, for my entire childhood, I wanted a mother. My mother. I wanted her to actually want to spend time with me so I wouldn’t feel like I was poison. I’m never, ever going to be able to get back those years, but maybe it would be healthy and healing for both of us to have a relationship going forward.
“Oh, dear, my stomach’s acting up.” She makes a face. “Sorry, TMI? Had my gallbladder out, and it does funny things to my digestion.” She stands up. “I’ll be right back. We have lots to talk about; don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t,” I say, watching her rush off.
I lean back in my seat, and I feel as if a heavy mantle of lead has been lifted from my shoulders.
It’s not me; it was never me. It was her lousy mother and her terrible upbringing.
I grab my phone and quickly call my dad.
