People are always amazed when I would say my parents we’re dead, often remarking, “oh I don’t know what I would do.” Well, I always think you learn to deal with it, you have to go on and survive or just wither up and die.
We talked on the phone and made a date to meet. Monday came and I was ready to face my fears. I had changed my last name and tried to run from my family and seeing her would bring me back into the fold, 23-years later with people I had tried to forget about.
The last time my mother saw me I had bleached blonde hair and wore enough black eyeliner to choke Liza Minnelli. When she entered it took me awhile to recognize her; she didn’t recognize me, and I took that for a good thing. Meeting her could have gone many different ways. I could have “told her like it is,” like I have with various people over the years. Instead I let it all go, the past, and it’s not like I can forget everything and become a perfect person from it, but I can understand her better, as she didn’t have it easy as well. Being pregnant at fifteen with a family who all wanted to run the other way instead of helping her didn’t make her life easy. Sitting with her I didn’t have anger for her, I had pity. One learns over time that your parents did the best they could do for you.
Usually what hurt you at the time isn’t remembered by them, and vice versa; so why not just let it go and judge them for how they are now?