Mostly because her mother died on Mother’s Day (which was also her sister’s birthday), and ever after, she hated Mother’s Day. She didn’t want cards or gifts or even hugs. It was as if her own mother’s death had taken from her her own status as a mother.
I never said this to her, but maybe I ought to have.
Then again, maybe it didn’t matter.
Maybe she didn’t want to hear it; didn’t want to hear “I love you, Mum” or “Thanks, Mum!”, not on that day. Maybe she desperately wanted to hear it but didn’t know how to say how desperately she longed to hear it.
She was very close with her mother. The only big fight they ever had was when she was 13 and her mother wanted her to get confirmed in the church. She said no, because she didn’t know if she believed the things they were asking her to confirm that she believed. They always laughed together, their faces lit with joy.
Long before I knew what it was to be a mother, I knew I would not do that…I would not deny my motherhood when she died. I knew I would not refuse the hugs and snuggles of my own children, no matter how hard it might be to remember. It bothered me, but it didn’t bother me.
I’ve always wondered why that is.