Life

Things My Mother Never Told Me That Would Have Been Nice to Know

Some things are meant to stay hidden but then there are those that should be let out of the bag

My mother was Queen of the Secret Keepers, but over the years, to her dismay, many were revealed. If I happened to stumble upon information she had kept from me and then approached her about it, she often denied that it was true or claimed she had forgotten.

Why the secrecy?

One of those items I specifically asked her about was the secret to her amazing coffee. She would not give me the combination of the three coffees she used. I found two of them accidentally when I threw out her garbage, but the third remained a mystery. To this day, I don’t know what it was.

She also hid from us kids what my father had done with all the green items that disappeared from our house. People would give us presents and toys for holidays or anniversaries, but if they were green, they were never to be seen again. My mother neglected to tell us that my father hid them because he was superstitious and green was his bad luck color.

A big one — I asked her many times what happened to a little girl who lived with us for awhile. My mother told me I made her up and that she was my imaginary playmate. I begged her for years to tell me the truth because I knew she existed, but she would not confess.

Ultimately, one of my uncles felt guilty enough to tell me she was my half-sister from my father’s first marriage, and though they tried, they could not care for her.

One Christmas, I finally received the bike I had been begging for, but it was stolen during the night. I always suspected there was more to the story, and after years of questioning, my mother gave in — the bike was never mine. They had borrowed it for the day, thinking it would be better to believe Santa had brought me the bike and that it was gone than to never receive one at all. Wrong!

There were others over the years, and I’m sure there are more that will eventually reveal themselves as all secrets do, but the one that sticks out in my mind is due to it being one of my most recent discoveries.

Right under my nose, sort of

One day, while playing around in the bathroom trying out a new hairstyle, I held up a small mirror to the larger cabinet mirror so I could see both the side and back of my head. After I looked first to the right side, then to the left, I noticed something out of the ordinary.

The top of my right ear was perfectly round, but my left ear was flat on top and considerably shorter than the other one.

I ran to my mom and asked her what happened.

Her heartfelt response was, “You know your father used to cut your hair when you were little. One day, while you were fussing about something, you turned your head the wrong way, and he accidentally cut the top of your ear off with the scissors. I’m so sorry.”

She was genuinely upset and told me she was scared when it happened because I was screaming so much.

I didn’t remember any of it. Maybe I suppressed it, and if I were hypnotized, I’d remember, but it’s a blank now.

Why didn’t either of my parents ever mention this to me?

They must have known I would figure it out sooner or later. I wonder if my mom divulged that little secret to my grandmother, as she used to tell her everything. No, if she knew, she would have said something. My grandmother could no more keep a secret than I could.

So, where is the rest of my ear?

Then there is this burning question that I should have asked my mom while she was still alive. “So what became of the chunk of my ear that must have landed on the floor — or in my lap — or on my shoulder?”

Did she really think it was something she shouldn’t mention? That’s right up there with not telling me my father was ridiculously superstitious — I had a half-sister that no one wanted — they pretended I owned a bike for one day — and the recipe for the three-ingredient coffee concoction would be something she’d take to her grave!

But this is my ear! Part of my head! Where’s the rest of my ear? Did they throw it in the garbage or save it in a tissue? Did they throw it down the toilet? Is there a chunk of my DNA floating around Brooklyn somewhere?

Well, luckily, most people can’t see both of my ears at the same time unless they make a special effort to do a comparison or take a picture of both sides.

But surely someone noticed — a hairdresser, maybe. Did they assume I was born like that?

So that’s why my mother always combed my hair over to one side — tto cover my poor, mutilated ear! I wonder if she felt a pang of guilt or wondered if the time would ever be right to tell me.

Not the worst thing that could happen, but still, one rather important tidbit of information it would have been nice to know.

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