“Mom?”
Silence.
I was acutely aware she was home and that I was in deep trouble. I dropped my backpack on the floor and gingerly moved through the kitchen, determined to confront the situation head-on.
“Mom?”
As I descended the stairs, an unfamiliar odor wafted toward me. Could that really be—cigarette smoke? Neither of my parents smoked. Panic began to bubble up inside me, and I hurried down the remaining steps. The stench was more pronounced on the landing. Her bedroom door was shut, so I knocked softly. No response. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
My mom was sprawled in bed, cocooned under the covers. In one hand, she clutched a lit cigarette; on her nightstand sat a half-finished glass of brandy.
Oh no, I thought. I am truly the worst.
My mom has always been the epitome of calm. Half of our kitchen towels read “Keep Calm and Carry On,” and her personality mirrors that of the Dowager Countess Violet from Downton Abbey: dignified, reserved, with a hidden sense of humor and a heart of gold. When she was upset with me, she’d deliver remarks like, “You’re skating on thin ice!” along with a glare so icy it could freeze water. What on earth could lead her to retreat to her bed, with cigarettes and alcohol as her only solace? Four simple words:
I was a teenager.
Thirteen, to be exact, brimming with hormones that inspired ridiculous choices, like wearing scarves as tops to parties and secretly hooking up with boys in the vestry of my Catholic school—where my mom actually taught.
Even considering all that, her response might seem a bit over the top. I attribute it to two factors: 1) My previously impeccable behavior from infancy through adolescence, and 2) the number of troubled teens she had seen spiral out of control over the years. In her eyes, kissing boys was just the first step down a reckless path that, in her experience, led directly to hard drugs and skipping school. This was the beginning of my downfall.
Although my mom believed this was the end of the world, it turned out not to be the case. I did, however, become quite the headache for several months. Fortunately, the following year I was shipped off to boarding school. Left to my own devices, I turned out to be just like my mom (and the Dowager Countess): prim and proper as a posy. The rest of my teenage years went by without a hitch.
Yet, I’ve always felt the need to apologize for pushing my mom to the edge. For those parents of teens out there, take heart: your child may eventually feel the same remorse that I now carry. Here goes:
Dear Mom,
Remember that time I declared, “I hate you”? Well, it was more of a backhanded compliment. If I had been able to finish my thought, it would’ve been, “I hate you because you’re smarter than I am, you always see through my lies, and you’re not letting me have any fun. But deep down, I know you’re doing it out of love, and that makes me feel guilty, which makes the things you’re trying to prevent even more tempting.” So yes, your parenting methods are effective, even though I resent them.
I thought I hated you, but I always knew you cared. I made choices that prioritized my own feelings over yours, while you consistently made decisions that put my well-being above both our feelings. Thank you for being the adult I thought I was ready to be, but clearly, I wasn’t.
I also owe you apologies for: The lunchroom incident, the “skort” debacle, the concert fiasco, and that one time with Sarah—hopefully, you’ve managed to forget that one.
There are countless other things I should apologize for, but since you’re blissfully unaware of most of them, it’s probably best to let those sleeping dogs lie.
With love,
Your Daughter, a.k.a. Your Former Teenaged A-Hole
In summary, this letter reflects on the tumultuous relationship between a teenager and her mother, revealing the misunderstandings and regrets that often accompany adolescence. The author expresses a heartfelt apology for her rebellious behavior and acknowledges the love and wisdom that guided her mother’s decisions.