human

I walked slowly up the driveway, taking in the mild summer breeze. The sky was light blue with veils of grey clouds scattered across it, even though it was way past midnight. I had this eerie feeling in my bones, like something strange was about to happen so I hesitated slightly before I opened the back door by our terrace. The lights were still on in the living room, and I could see my mother’s silhouette under a blanket on the couch as I walked in.

She seemed to be sleeping, and I gently tiptoed across the living room toward the hallway when I heard a soft sniffle. I froze and felt my body tense up. I considered for a moment if I could continue unnoticed, I knew I didn’t want to deal with whatever was going on. But after a brief pause, I heard my own voice break the silence. “Is everything okay?” She didn’t say anything. I waited, turned slightly. She made me feel so small, like I was five years old again and didn’t know anything about anything. Least of all how to help her.

I noticed the blanket was shaking in a steady rhythm, and suddenly she broke the silence again, sobbing loudly. “Oh…” I said as I walked over to her, sitting down on the edge of the couch. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she grabbed it and squeezed way too hard. “Don’t cry…” I tried squeezing back, but she was holding tightly and I don’t think she could even feel it. She kept sobbing uncontrollably, trying to say something, gasping for air as if she was choking. I didn’t know what to do.

“What’s wrong?” I finally asked. She sat up half way and I moved down beside her to let her head rest in my lap. “I don’t know. Everything. I’m sorry…” she cried, still shaking in my arms. She looked up at me and had this look of utter despair, as if nothing would ever be good again. Maybe that was true for her. The contrast of the lightness of my evening made me feel uneasy, as if I had no right to be happy when she wasn’t. But I had never known her happy, and I didn’t know how to fix her. I had tried to find out how for such a long time. Maybe if I was better, nicer, spent more time at home. Maybe if I paid some bills. Maybe if we went on trips together or maybe just talked for a while. Maybe if I asked her difficult questions. But I knew that the answers would only reflect the truth she wanted to live in.

“I’m sorry.” she said again. I told her it was okay, I told her not to cry and patted her back helplessly because I didn’t know of any other ways to comfort someone. It made me uncomfortable that I wasn’t one of those people, the ones that can make you feel better just by being there. The ones who are warm and loving, and can find the right words and hold you tightly until your whole body feels warm with their positive energy. I was cold, and frozen in place while my mother was falling apart. She sat back up again, and covered her face with her hands as tears kept falling down her cheeks. I’d never seen her cry like this. I don’t think I’d seen her cry much at all, except out of anger. She seemed so vulnerable and as if she needed me, and I didn’t know how to be there for her. But still, here I was.

“I know I haven’t always done everything right.” she started, and I wanted to leave. I wasn’t ready for this, and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. She told me she regretted many things, and she wanted me to know she was sorry. It was a strange feeling, because I’d always wanted her to say that but now that she was, I didn’t want to listen. The words coming out of my mouth felt flat and insincere, just things you learn to say from seeing similar things on TV or through conversations with your friends as they cry over a broken heart. I knew this was more serious than that. I felt like she was pulling rocks from her heart and placing them on my shoulders, trying to release some of the pain she kept from us throughout her life. But this was a part of her heritage that wasn’t mine to keep, and her secrecy had ensured that I couldn’t understand it. She kept speaking, making more or less sense.

When I ran out of words, I embraced her and held her tightly, every fiber of my being in protest. We never hugged each other. Even when I was little, there were no hugs goodnight or goodbye. I remember feeling so jealous at sleepovers, parents would come tuck us in, hugging their children goodnight. I wanted to ask for one too, only I didn’t want them to love me. Or pity me. “I love you” she said quietly. I felt like she had just punched me in the gut, and I knew that was the wrong feeling. Would I ever be able to love? How would I know?

“I know.” I said, lying. “I love you too.” I said to make her feel better. But I did love her. I just didn’t want to tell her that. Maybe I didn’t want her to know, so she could use it against me. But I knew she knew. I was her daughter, and she was my mother. I got up, and went to the kitchen to get her a glass of water. When I returned, she was already sleeping. I hadn’t noticed the empty bottle of wine on the table until now.

She used to be a super hero. But I think that it’s a good thing when we learn that our parents are only human too. It makes it easier to forgive their shortcomings.