Georgia Sun

Dear Mom,

I don’t know if you’d remember this, but when I was a little girl and we still lived in Georgia, I fell down the hardwood steps once. I started crying when I hit the landing, and you tiredly walked over to sit beside me on the floor and take me into your arms. Your body language said you were trying to be comforting, rubbing a hand up and down my arm, but your words felt like tough love.

“When you’re getting older, you’re not supposed to cry when you get hurt,” you told me. “You’re supposed to get angry.”

Those are the kinds of words that a teenage brain looks back on with indignation. After all, I’d thought, what kind of message is that to give to a child? But I get it now. To a teenager, moral purity is still an achievable goal. Perfection still exists. Everything is a personal slight, or an injustice to be condemned; every problem can be fixed. As an adult, I understand that this wasn’t meant to be a lifelong memory of a teaching moment. You weren’t imparting your philosophy of life; you were probably just exhausted from raising a child mostly on your own, and you were desperate for me to stop crying. Still, it stuck with me - and isn’t that always the way? The defining memories of a person’s upbringing are always different for the parents and the children. To err is human, and hard as it may be to believe it, parents actually do count as humans.

No - that's cheesy. Let me start over.

Dear Mom,

When my best friend and I were back in town last year for my 23rd birthday, we went into one of our favorite old haunts, the place on Sullivan with all the fancy spices and teas and flavored oils. It’s a regular brick-and-mortar shop, but the decor on the inside makes it feel like you’re in a medieval-era ship, transporting barrels and crates of spices and oil across the sea, with little trinkets and small home decor items up for sale alongside glass bottles and jars. I didn’t notice it until we were leaving, but there was a small wooden sign for sale in the shop that simply read: Dear Mom, I get it now. Thank you.

Dear Mom,

When I was a little girl, I thought Dad was the ultimate superhero. I was always told what a hero he was for being prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, to go to war and fight to defend our country. And he did sacrifice a lot. In fact, he sacrificed his family.

I have memories of one particular summer with him in the Georgia house; we would both be watching TV or playing video games late at night (after all, you and I both know I get the insomnia from him). I have memories of being shocked when he suggested we order pizza at 2am, or when he let me watch the grown-up shows on Nick at Nite. I have a memory of you dishing up some ice cream for me in one of those shallow ceramic bowls and drizzling a responsible amount of chocolate syrup on top, only for Dad to scoff, take the bottle from you, and nearly empty the contents of it onto the ice cream. You were furious at him, but I giggled and scurried away with the bowl before anyone could stop me. Dad was the cool parent. He played guitar and drums, he encouraged me to sing at the top of my lungs in the backyard. He threw all our money at cool, expensive toys like speedboats and fast cars, and we’d use them to disappear. Dad drove me away from you in wild jolts and swerves, the leather seats searing hot from the low Georgia sun. I watched you vanish in the rear view mirrors.

Anytime he screamed at me, I knew for a fact that it was my fault. And anytime I watched you two argue, I always assumed Dad was the one in the right. I know I was a child, but I still owe you an apology for that.

Dear Mom,

I inherited Dad's insecurity, and maybe his emotional instability. I've rewritten this letter several times because nothing I can say sounds like enough. But I get it now. I became a stepmom way too young, I know. I was nineteen when I fell in love with a man who had a child from a previous relationship - the same age you were when you and Dad got married. I know how it feels now to be the nag - to beg your partner to help with chores or cooking, to beg your child to do their homework or bathe themselves. I also know how Dad felt whenever he lost his temper with us. When you get hurt, you’re supposed to get angry. I know how it feels to be the only one that seems to care about keeping things together. I know how it feels to show that you care, and have the people who are supposed to care back respond with rolled eyes and exasperated looks. I understand now that Dad wasn’t the fun parent - he was just the one that didn’t care. My entire life, you’ve been the real superhero.

Thank you. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to notice what goes on behind the scenes, especially when I think about the past. My wellbeing was always your first thought, and I’m consistently shocked by your altruism and selflessness. It’s the sort of thing I can never repay you for. And because of that, nothing you can do now will matter much in shaking my opinion of you. Your example taught me that loyalty.

Dear Mom,

The next chance I get, I’m gonna go back to that spice shop and buy that sign.

Dear Mom,

We haven’t talked much about that weekend I came home from college for the weekend in November of 2017. We haven’t talked about the gash on your forehead, the exhausted bags under your eyes. The punches he threw, the awful threats he made, how he broke down the door when you wouldn’t let him in. Every day after that for the next month, I woke up with the fear that I would get a call from the police. And I could barely contain my rage, especially when I talked to Dad after that. There was no apology, no acknowledgement of the pain and fear I felt for you. Even talking to you during that time was frustrating, because all I could think was, where is your anger? When you get hurt, you’re supposed to get angry.

I understood you better when you told me you didn't want what happened to affect my relationship with my dad. You wanted to improve things between my father and I, even when he didn't deserve your help. My wellbeing was always your first thought. Before I start over with this letter once again, I should say this: I know you were in love with him, but I’m glad you’re not together anymore. Thirty-three years was more than enough. You did your part, you did everything right. And I am immeasurably proud of you.

Dear Mom,

I understand you now. Parenting is the most thankless job in the world. It is work, and I don’t know how you managed it so well for so long. I don’t blame you for the times you were cruel; I understand that you’d just gotten hurt. And I know I’m getting long-winded about this, and constantly rewriting this letter isn't making it better. All I really mean to say can be summed up like this:

Dear Mom,

I get it now. Thank you.