Epilogue

Confessions have never come easily to anyone in our family. We seem to talk a lot without saying very much at all. The discomfort of truth-telling is avoided at all costs, and there are quite a lot of uncomfortable truths strewn across the debris of our lives.

In any case, I suppose I’ve already said most of the things I’ve ever wanted to say to you. I think there comes a time when you realise that trying to fill the endless gaps in a failing relationship is just a futile endeavour that yields little more than misery.

The truth is, I’ve had to grieve the loss of you during your own lifetime. I’ve had to make peace with the fact that I have to accept the mother I have had and I have to stop wishing for the mother you were never interested in being. Though it was a difficult lesson to learn, I now accept it.

I think you were tired of parenthood by the time I arrived, my siblings had already grown into teenagers and were becoming more independent. Coupled with the fact that your relationship with my father was beyond what could be described as dysfunctional you just never warmed to me.

My life has always been intertwined with my father's abuse of you and your memories of it. When you look at me you see him and I’ve always known it.

My siblings are saved this injustice by having a different father, a man who simply walked away and left you to get on with single parenthood and scraping a life together.

Mine, my other parent, my father, and the other half of my DNA was physically and emotionally abusive and I know that when you look at me, you remember only trauma and what it cost you to survive.

You called me a mistake.

I don’t blame you. Placing blame on someone who refuses to accept responsibility for their actions is pointless. You learn to move on, move past it and carry on.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’ve learned to focus on other things. I’ve come to terms with the fact that you don’t want to be my parent any more than I want to be your daughter. This is in spite of the many people who keep telling me I should make peace with you as you move closer to the end of your life. That I’ll have to live with my regret if I don’t.

And I do sometimes wonder if, in a final gesture of reconciliation, you might ask someone to call me to your bedside. The fear of passing on without being forgiven, with things still left unsaid might possibly be the one thing that prompts you to atone for a lifetime of rejecting me. I know you better than that, and your stubborn pride won't allow you to give in. In your eyes, your denial of me is justified, and no amount of telling you otherwise will change that.

I choose to be motherless. I choose to be an orphan over being your daughter because I can love myself better than you never had the impulse to. When people ask about you I tell them you’ve passed on. You’re not here anymore. It’s easier than explaining that I have a mother who can’t stand to look at me or hear my voice.

We haven't spoken for three and a half years. The last time I saw you, I travelled back and forth between different parts of the city to look after you in hospital. In your delirium, you were caring and considerate. I fed you each meal, took you to the bathroom, cleaned you, and calmed you when you felt scared. You were struggling to remember who you were and where you’d been. You told rambling tales of having been brought to the hospital after flying over bomb-devastated buildings. No doubt, you were remembering things from when you were a child in the war that had been buried deep somewhere.

The delirium lasted for over a week.

That last day when I arrived at the hospital you were alert, and you seemed to be feeling better. And then it came, I could see the disgust in your face before you had time to find the words that you eventually hurled at me. And so, in front of the other patients and medical staff I told you what I knew to be true. That you were no longer my mother. That I would never speak to you again and that from that day, I would never attempt to contact you. As in any other relationship, when it’s over you just know. Too many words, too much hurt, and more rejection than any child can ever bear.

It’s been over three years, and I still haven't spoken to you. Haven't even picked up the phone to dial your number. I’ve discussed you at length in therapy and come to terms with the fact that nothing can bridge the gap. I prefer to live a peaceful life away from you.

I’ve been able to heal most of the wounds left behind by your caustic words of belittlement and rage. It’s taken a long time and there have been far too many tears shed for someone that won’t shed any for me. I practice radical acceptance. And I accept that you could never be the mother I needed and deserved to have. I parent myself now and I do a better job of it than you ever did.

I hope that you find some peace in your life. I hope that you can find a way to resolve any fears or apprehensions you have as you come to the end of your life. I pray the sadness of loneliness doesn’t engulf you when you’re alone and feeling most vulnerable. I hope my siblings are finding time to be with you and that you appreciate them for it.

I’m not sorry that you didn’t love me. In lacking your love I found something greater, and that is the power to overcome any difficulty I’ve ever faced with stoic determination. You showed me through your lack of caring that I could depend on myself and I’m grateful for that.

We won’t ever speak again, but if we did, and despite everything that has happened. Do you know what my final words to you would be?

I love you mum.