Why This Is the Year I Won’t Be Wishing My Mom a Happy Birthday
From the Archives: November 2020
In addition to today being Thanksgiving, one of America’s most cherished holidays, it’s also my mom’s 57th birthday. This will be the first year I’m actively choosing not to reach out, and wish her the best. The last time I heard from her was about 740 days ago, and her message of “Thanks, I did” left a lot to be desired. Despite the lack of interest on her part, I continued to reach out over the years, but she left me in “read” each and every time with no reply in sight.
During the year that forced us to reconsider every aspect of our lives and cherish our closest connections, I naively considered 2020 to be the time I would see “Mom” pop up on the screen of my phone. Her silence continued months into the lockdown that suffocated the world, and yet another of my birthdays passed without a whisper.
A few days after an intimate birthday bash with my closest friends, I texted her. It wasn’t my brightest moment, I was a bottle of Rioja in and had been patiently waiting for the arrival of my then-boyfriend who concluded it would be easier for him to stay at his place following a deadline that kept him at the office most of the week.
I was caught up in all the feels. I was lonely, grieving the loss of my old existence, and wished for nothing more than to be surrounded by the people I love. Watching Letters to Juliet and yearning for the warmth of Vanessa Redgrave’s character, Claire is when I drafted a message to my mother. I asked a lot of questions. I wondered why she hadn’t replied for years, why she neglected her only daughter, and why a global pandemic hadn’t made her reevaluate her stoic nature. Pools of liquid dripped down my face, and my eyes stung from the volume of salty tears. I pushed my thumb to the screen and watched my message go out into the world. Like clockwork, two blue ticks appeared, and I was disregarded yet again.
Whenever my mother is mentioned in conversation, there are usually sighs of disbelief or enquiries about what caused her to behave in such a way. The answer is that there is no apparent reason, and no expletive-filled argument caused her to retreat; she just did.
I was never the one to catch my mother’s eye. I was never quite the person my mother wanted me to be. Whether it was her changing my role in the year-one Christmas pageant or critiquing the cities in which I chose to live, she only voiced disappointment in me whenever we spoke. Of course, there were years of severe neglect and abuse, not that she would admit any of it, but I still hoped there was a part of her that would show up for me, say the right things, and stroke my head in a time of need. It was painfully evident in that moment of my standing alone in a dark kitchen across the world how that wish would never come to fruition.
It’s often said that women’s romantic endeavours mirror their relationships with their fathers. In my case, I can confidently say that most of my partners have shared one too many similarities with my mother for it to be called a coincidence. The men I’ve chosen to love have all been brilliantly creative, independent, reticent, and emotionally removed. While I didn’t see it at the time, my then-boyfriend possessed about as much emotional range as a toaster. In all of my dating efforts, I attempted to keep my distance from avoidant men, but it became clear that I first needed to disconnect myself from my mother emotionally.
Nothing would be quite right for her if I looked the part, said the right things, or even won The Nobel Prize in Literature. Trying to find ways to please her depleted my confidence and sense of self, which no longer served a purpose in my life. Maybe it took a global pandemic or decades of learning to detach my heart from her, but if she couldn’t find a way to be a part of my life, I would surround myself with those who love to be in it. Besides, now that I’m in London, I’m much closer to my beloved Vanessa Redgrave.
