My mother’s laughter echoed at our family gathering as we sat around the table playing cards. Between the banter and the utensils scraping at plates, her favorite story always found its way back into the room.
I sat wide-eyed, hanging on to every word as she declared, yet again, that I was the surprise baby she never wanted.
Her mindset had started with a miscarriage after she had given birth to her fifth child. That loss made her determined never to get pregnant again. She had tied, clipped and burned her tubes, and breathed a sigh of relief knowing my older sister would be her last child.
I shrank in my kiddie chair as she recounted the tale. I didn’t hear it as my mom trying to avoid another pregnancy. I heard it as her not wanting me.
That idea took root in my 7-year-old heart. Not long before, I had broken down and told my mother that I had been molested. She didn’t believe me. She was in a new relationship, and everything was going well for her. I felt like my news was ruining her happy season, and that I was unworthy of the love and protection that I craved.
When I was a teenager, my family was displaced from our hometown of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. We moved to Texas, and I hoped it would be a new beginning for us.
I excelled academically and creatively in school, even writing a play that my classmates performed. As the curtains closed and I scanned the crowd, I didn’t find the one person I wanted to lock eyes with. My mother had not shown up. That disappointment met me at every one of my parades, flag football games and other events. My feelings of rejection due to the lack of support at home continued to compound.
At 20, I got a taste of first-love butterflies when I met my boyfriend. We got married, and I immediately went on birth control. Shortly after, I saw history repeat itself as I held a positive pregnancy test in my hands that wasn’t part of the plan. I had ended up in the same shoes as my mother—but determined to walk a different path.
I had a gut feeling that I would have a boy. There was no way that God would let me have a girl, knowing how inadequate and disconnected I felt as a woman. As much as I prayed and was convinced, nine months later, I held a beautiful baby girl in my arms.
There I was, at an identity crossroads, needing to go from being a broken daughter to playing the role of a loving mother. I had never personally experienced that kind of love and had no idea how to close that gap. My only solution was to constantly shower my child with the care and affection I never received.
Over the years, I became a single mom and survived a near-death health crisis. Through it all, my daughter blossomed into a beautiful young lady, and I showed up for her every way I could. I attended every basketball game, PTA meeting and field trip, hugging her every chance I got. I never wanted her to question how much I loved her. Unknowingly, I had created a new cycle that she desperately wanted to break.
“Mom, it’s okay for you to pull back and not come to all my events. I don’t like all the hugs, and I’m too old for you to be blowing me kisses,” my 11-year-old confessed. “I know that you’re there for me, I just don’t need to feel it all the time.”
I was heartbroken and confused, but I swallowed my pride and thanked her for her honesty. I stopped checking all the boxes that I wished my mother had checked for me and gave her space to become her own person. It closed the distance between us, and resentment never settled in.
Unfortunately, my relationship with my mother still had a lot of unfinished business. She had a work-related injury that led to back issues, which required multiple surgeries and caused further health and mobility complications. Her life went from happily bouncing between families’ houses in Texas and New Orleans to needing a permanent home where she could receive daily care.
My siblings quickly shuffled the responsibility my way since I had an empty room in my house. I wrestled with the decision. Part of me looked back to 7-year-old me, and all the ways I had wanted to connect with my mom, even if only for a moment. Now, she required a 24/7 willingness from me that I felt she hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve. Still, I obliged.
Taking care of my mother changed parts of me I didn’t expect. Initially, I had my guard up, protecting my inner child and preparing to reject excessive demands. And yet, when she arrived at my doorstep, bags in hand, all I could see was her frail and flawed humanity.
I wasn’t sure how to navigate this new dynamic, but I knew I wanted to give her a chance to share her truth. A few attempts at those conversations fell flat, ending with each of us justifying our hurt. Then I created a journal for us to pass back and forth instead. In it, I asked her many deep questions, like, “When was the first time you remember feeling abandoned?” Surprisingly, she filled the notebook and needed another.
As I read the pages of her past, my own childhood began to make more sense. It didn’t feel right to hold everything against her anymore. She was just a girl who felt unloved, too. Seeing her personal struggles on paper led me to the closure that conversations and resentment never could.
Becoming my mom’s caretaker didn’t erase the past, but it did set a steady tone for the present. We settled into a routine of going to the doctor, refilling pill trays and sharing spaces. For the first time in our lives, we could be together for long stretches without tension filling the room. My care went from being transactional to that of a daughter giving what she herself had never received.
As I brushed my mother’s hair, I saw the layers thinning, exposing parts of her scalp. As I helped her to the bathroom, I saw a woman bent forward, no longer able to stand with her shoulders back and chin up. Her legs were swollen, and she couldn’t dress herself.
When it sank in that she was no longer the strong, independent woman I remembered her being, I cried for hours. What surprised me most wasn’t how fragile she had become; it was how quickly anger loosened its grip on me. I thought I would feel vindicated to see her worn down. Instead, I felt compassion.
Shedding those tears cleansed my soul. I stopped fighting the past and looking for answers there. I realized the only way I could heal was by finally understanding that my mother was unhealed.
We may never establish a fairy-tale mother-daughter bond, but I am at peace. Grief resurfaces from time to time, but I can give her grace without undoing my own healing. I can care for my mother and still choose myself. That’s true reconciliation.