A Conversation Over Casserole

Mother, I am not mad.

2 cans of green beans

1 can cream of celery

Because you respected that I didn’t like mushrooms and it’s not the only thing you gave up for me, for us.

1 egg yolk

Dollop of Mayo

Your secret ingredient. I can hear you whisper it at me, see your wink, the hazel eye twinkling, crying out, telling me more than I was old enough to pay attention to.

Season it on up, but not too much because dad doesn’t like it, because you can always add more and never take away. Remember that, you tell me. Remember you could always have it worse; be grateful for what God has given us.

Foil it and bake at 350 for enough time to fold laundry. I fold my towels just like you: hamburger, hot dog, trifold.

Pull it out and top with practically a whole bag of cheddar, whatever is on sale, and leave a little bit for scrambled eggs in the morning. The only eggs I knew how to make because you slept in on weekends and dad was gone before I woke.

Then add the crunchy onions and claw at it to mix it in.

You’ve always had such beautiful nails and you’ll tell everyone about the first time you had enough money to get a manicure because your mama, Gran, said getting your nails done was a luxury and you had to earn it. The manicurist didn’t believe your nails were real.

Set it on broil, but not for too long. Don’t let it burn. Don’t let Danny near Tia. Don’t let Josh near Tia. Don’t get drywall in the dinner.

Mother, I am not mad.

At this point in my life, I don’t know what it’s like to be you, to be a mother. I only know what it’s like to be raised and loved by you; to know what it’s like to have a consistently loving mother. I will not discredit you, but there was just this one thing. Well, two things.

Mother, I am not mad.

I am not your only child and protecting 2/3 may feel like you gave it your all. I am, after all, technically, physically fine. I only want one child, whenever that time comes. Just one child to protect, just one to teach how to make green bean casserole.

Mother, I am not mad.

I exist and am grateful, I swear. I’m glad you taught me through your stories, but I just wish you had taught your boys. I wish you had told them to respect their sister, to love their sister, to teach their sister, to protect their sister. But you didn’t tell them the story; you didn’t tell them the family secret, so they repeated history. They repeated generations of, “Hush now, don’t say anything, don’t make a big fuss over nothing, they’re just kids.”

We weren’t playing. My tears were real. Don’t leave me outside with them, I don’t want to go outside anymore, I don’t want to play, I want to learn how to make green bean casserole.

Mother, I am not mad.

I just wish you had told me sooner. Did you not have one single thought that they could have ganged up on me? Did the incessant pinching, throwing, crying, not give it away? Did you just not notice? Was I just a brat? Isn’t that what Gran called you? Didn't Gran turn to you and say, "Hush now, don't make a big fuss over nothin'"?

Mother, I am not mad.

I just wish I could have started healing sooner. We could have healed. But I guess protecting 1/3 doesn’t sound as good when you're sitting around the table with your cousins, sharing your children's successes. Doesn’t feel as much of a success if it's just one who never comes to visit. I’m all you have left now. You spent so much effort on protecting the boys and what did they do to you? They ran when they knew tears from their mother would no longer save them.

Mother, I am not mad because I know how hurt you must be. How much pain all of this causes you. How many things you’re going to miss out on, all those sweet things you deserve, like having a woman tell you, “Thank you for raising such an amazing son.” Well, you heard it once, but then Danny did God knows what to her daughters, to his stepdaughters.

Mother, I am not mad because I know you tried. I know you’ve spent your whole life trying, worrying, and I wish I could go back in time and tell all the little boys to keep their hands to themselves. But you and I have to move past this, not let it haunt us, not let it carry on.

Mother, I am not mad.

I mix spinach in my ricotta when I make lasagna, I slice zucchini for spaghetti, I tidy while I cook so my partner doesn’t have too many dishes to do. I take care of the ones I love, just like you do. I walk like you. I’m just like you. Soft spoken and I always have to have music playing; you’ll tell everyone my love of music came from you, not dad. Our laugh is the same.

Mother, I am not mad.

It’s just a shame I have the same trauma as you and I’ve spent my entire adult life trying not to repeat anymore of them; the same as you did, and your mama before her.

Mother, I am not mad, but I will teach my child about using yoghurt instead of sour cream and that it’s okay to speak up when you don’t like mushrooms. I will listen to my child when they say, "I don't want to play with them anymore." I will teach them how you made green bean casserole.

Mother, I am not mad. Will you pass the dish?