FROM MY LIFE

I Allowed Her To Step Down From The Pedestal

I elevated my mom to divinity, refusing to remember her flaws

The day after buried my mom, our house flooded.

A couple of weeks into that ordeal, I had a mantra: It was my mom’s doing, because she wanted to take my mind off my grief.

In everything that happened, I saw her hand.

When calling up memories with my daughter, it was always about how good she was — kind-hearted, caring and loving.

We both had dreams about her, and told each other how she was with us always, watching over us and guiding us.

I only emphasized her good points.

I placed her on a pedestal, making her into a divine-like creature.

For the first year after my mom had passed away, I visited her grave once a week. Gradually that changed into once every other week, then once a month, until it came to an abrupt halt when Covid hit.

At her grave, I told her about everything, the same way I did when she was still alive. I cried many tears there, missing her terribly, and told the world she wasn’t only my mom, but my best friend.

When still alive, I told her a lot, but I never told her everything.

Saying she was my best friend was just another way of keeping her on that pedestal.

By the end of 2020, I learned about my parents’ betrayal.

My first reaction was to place the blame only on my father. I knew my mom had a hard life under him, not only because she told me, but also because I had witnessed it as a child. I wanted to believe my father had been the one deciding, and my mom had no say in it.

But questions kept gnawing at the back of my mind.

My daughter wasn’t even two years old when my parents divorced.

Why hadn’t my mom told the truth then? What about later years?

Like that time, fourteen years before she found her father, when my daughter told my mom she was going to look for him, and my mom said: why would you?

My daughter, so trusting my mom’s judgment, dropped her plans. Why hadn’t my mom told the truth then?

There were so many other opportunities over the years where she could’ve come clean about my father forcing his decision on her.

Why hadn’t she? Maybe she had something to do with it after all?

On her behalf, I came up with this: it’s much easier saying you’re guilty of something than admitting you’re ashamed of not standing up against an oppressor. I told myself shame weighs heavier than guilt.

Once more, I left her on that pedestal.

Gradually something changed.

When talking about my mom, I prefaced the good memories with “she was no saint, but…”

Other memories surfaced. Not-so-good memories. Memories of times she hurt me. Times she leaned on me to get her way. Turned things for her own financial gain. Said nasty things, like that time with my brother, when she sneered at me: ‘does it always have to be about you’?

None of those memories made me love her less, though.

She was still on the pedestal.

During our decluttering journey, I found a book she and I tried to work through about six weeks before she passed away. The book was about jotting down memories of your life for those you leave behind.

One question was what she thought of my first boyfriend.

She said she never liked my first husband, but I reminded her he wasn’t my first boyfriend. She then said she never liked the father of my daughter either, and when I asked why, her answer was: he wasn’t good enough for you.

From the memories my then-boyfriend had shared with me, my mom was fond of him, having long conversations with him and hugging him like a son.

It was only when re-reading those words, and thinking back on happenings throughout my life, I realized my mom had been a snob. I remember her frequently saying: “I’m not looking down on people, but…”

I discussed most of the above with my coach.

After finding out about my parents’ lies, I was sad. I was grieving. The coach asked me to allow the anger when I felt it, but I never did. Thinking of what they had done, and the circumstances that prompted their decision, I also thought of my own life, and the stupid decisions I had made — decisions made with love and my children’s wellbeing in mind.

I understood my parents loved me and thought they handled in my best interest when taking things in hand. I can’t fault them for that, no matter how sad I am about what they had done.

What I blame them for is never coming clean; for allowing me to live a lie.

I had always thought my daughter’s father had abandoned me. I had grieved for him, for us. I had thrown myself at men for years, hoping they would love and accept me. I had no self-worth, because I believed I wasn’t good enough to fight for.

Up to the moment I knew about their betrayal, I always told the story how when I fell pregnant with my daughter, I had decided to not right one wrong with another, which is why I had told my boyfriend we shouldn’t marry, but he could stay in our child’s life.

Then he disappeared.

I now believe that wasn’t a real memory, and those were my mom’s words, which I had adopted as my own to lessen the pain, because which 16-year-old child possesses wisdom like that?

Thinking about all that had happened when I fell pregnant, and keeping the lie alive throughout her life, I saw my mom in a new light.

Not really a new light, to be honest.

I allowed her to step off her pedestal, and she became my mom again — loving, kind and friendly, but with all her flaws of unnecessary harsh words, selfish acts and twisted opinions.

Not an untouchable, divine creature anymore, but just my mom.

A mom I loved deeply.

A mom whom I forgive.

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