My sister and I arrived at our mother’s house on a Wednesday, ready for her turn with us. Although tears in her eyes were not unusual, the heaviness of that day felt different.
“Girls, please come to the living room. We need to talk,” she said, and my heart sank. I braced myself for the worst, a reflex that had developed since that day she whisked us away from our father’s house during her dramatic exit from their marriage. As she began to cry, I held her tight, trying to soothe her pain. “I’m here for you, Mom.”
Then came the bombshell: “Your stepfather and I are bankrupt, and we have to move. We both got jobs in Oklahoma and will be leaving Friday. You’ll be living with Dad.”
In just two days, she would be moving out of state, leaving us behind. Despite her increasingly erratic behavior over the years, I was still caught off guard. Mothers don’t abandon their children, do they? I thought a bond forged in flesh and blood would forever tie us together. But it was happening. I stifled my pain, shoving away the feelings of detachment. Although I didn’t blame myself for her decision, I couldn’t help but wonder why I wasn’t enough to make her stay.
I held on to the hope that even after she moved nine hours away, she would still be my mother, a long-distance parent just a phone call away. The countdown of two days felt surreal. How does one spend the last 48 hours with a mother?
I attempted to plan our final night together, but before I could speak, she announced, “I’m going to visit Clara. She’s having a tough time, and she needs me.”
My cheeks burned with humiliation. This midlife crisis friend needed her on our last night together? They’d spent countless nights out while I stayed home alone, yet I foolishly expected our farewell to be special.
“What about us, your daughters?” I thought but nodded instead, holding back my emotions. She suggested we use the time to pack for our dad’s house, but neither of us could drive. Packing was all we could do anyway.
I barely remember her coming back that night. I fell asleep until the alarm rang for school. Friday arrived, and her flight was only hours away.
My sister walked to her school a few streets away as I packed in my mother’s car for the last drop-off. The silence was suffocating. She turned up the music to drown it out until the tears began to fall. I repeated my mantra: don’t cry, be strong.
Minutes before arriving, she said, “Honestly, I’m not worried about you. I’m only worried about your sister. Promise me you’ll take care of her.” I promised.
With stoicism, I grabbed my backpack, opened the door, and hugged my mother, saying I loved her. She returned the sentiment but never mentioned calling once she landed in her new life. There was no plan for follow-up.
I wandered into school, feeling like a ghost, lost and alone. The bell rang, and she was gone.
Dad sent a co-worker to pick me up that afternoon, and I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me, being the motherless girl needing a ride. It wasn’t his busy schedule that hurt, but rather his emotional detachment.
The plan was to drop off at our mother’s empty house to collect our things, and Dad would pick us up later. She’d return briefly the next week for her furniture and car—not even for a visit.
My sister and I tried to lift each other’s spirits with laughter, dancing to Michael Jackson songs, attempting to transform our emotional funeral into a celebration. As the sun set, Dad was running late.
The fridge was bare, and hunger gnawed at us, sparking anger over being left alone. I didn’t have my license but rummaged for the keys and told my sister to get in. “I’ll get us something to eat.”
I had always been the obedient child, but with no parents to care for us, I decided to break the rules. I took every back road to the nearest fast-food joint, terrified of getting caught. After we got our food, I turned off the main road suddenly, sending my drink flying all over us and the car.
“You idiot!” I yelled, scrambling to clean it up. I eventually confessed to my mother about taking her car for food that day. She barely reacted, claiming she’d done worse things in her youth. “I once ran away and slept in an airport when my mother signed my rights away to a man who hurt kids.”
Her experiences diminished mine, reinforcing a painful hierarchy of suffering.
Weeks passed, and she became a ghost, barely contacting me. I longed to reach out, missing her presence. When I finally gathered the courage to call, her response was cold and dismissive. “What do you need?”
“I just wanted to talk,” I stuttered, but she didn’t have time. I realized her role as my mother had ended when she left town. A rare phone call to my long-distance mother felt burdensome to her.
What did I need? Not a ride to dance class or dinner, but a mother’s love. I stopped calling, only reaching out when nostalgia hit, craving that maternal warmth. Yet, every time I did, I was reminded of her absence.
Months later, my sister and I visited her on an island where she sought happiness, though chaos trailed her. We went on a public submarine tour, where I felt more like a visitor to a distant relative. I caught glimpses of familiarity, but my mother felt absent.
Suddenly, I saw her curled up at the bottom of a staircase, sobbing. As people walked by, she wouldn’t look up. I touched my sister’s arm, motioning toward her. “What do we do?”
“Let her be,” my sister replied. “She’s just processing. She’ll be alright.”
But I wasn’t alright.
Eventually, we helped her to her feet, but I felt the weight of our past settle back in. I had only ever existed as her caretaker, and I struggled to recall moments as her daughter.
The cycle of trauma seemed unending, passed down from generation to generation. I realized this had to stop with me. I had to accept that I didn’t have a mother who participated in my life.
Watching other daughters with their mothers felt unfair, deepening my pain. A mother is supposed to love and protect you. Where was mine?
Traumas and untreated mental illness stole her from me. In faded memories, I thought I knew her once, but now I watched her drift away, just as I did.
“Maybe we will meet again someday, free from our traumas,” I thought. Until then, I would find a way to mother myself, nurturing the lost child inside me.