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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Relationships
- Published: 03/18/2017
I forgive you, Mom
Born 1967, F, from Caridff-by-the-Sea, CA, United StatesLos Angeles, California, in the 1980s. Saturday morning, my favorite day of the week, no after-school activities. The aroma of café con leche travels into my small but charming bedroom. I delightfully wake up, vigorously wash my face, and stumble to the kitchen table where mom has handsomely laid out an assortment of fresh breads, specialty cheeses, and fruits. Everything mom did was methodical. The tablecloth and cloth napkins were flawlessly ironed, and the silverware was polished with care. We practically lived in a museum, all the furniture was French provincial, crafted with the finest fabrics and mahogany wood. Oil paintings and sculptures were elegantly exhibited throughout the house.
Dad had a shabby office which he purposely kept disorganized as it was his escape from our unblemished home. Dad had an old recliner in his office which mom had supplicated him to donate to the Salvation Army. Dad refused to relinquish his recliner as it was comfortable and not broken. Dad was very tender with mom and respected her opinions, however, often put his foot down by not letting mom take advantage of his kindness.
“Good morning, mom,” I say as I sweep my overgrown bangs to the side of my face. “Good morning, Lucita,” mom says as she adjusts her apron, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I don’t think I ever saw mom without makeup or unruly hair, she always looked impeccable with her tailored clothing. “Where is dad?” “Dad is in his office, go on, eat your breakfast, and don’t eat too much bread.” “Mom are you going to eat?” I inquire even though I know the response to my question. “No, Lucita, I must watch my girlish figure,” mom says as she sucks in her stomach while holding her voluptuous hips.
All my friend’s moms served breakfast wearing old dusty robes, curlers entrenched in their hair, and gunk still in their eyes. I aspired to grow up to be like mom, confident, elegant, and stylish. I love to lurk through mom’s closet because it has many chic couture clothes, fur coats, fancy shoes in European sizes, and evening handbags with French names impossible to pronounce. Sadly, dad was given a microscopic space for his belongings which he didn’t mind as long as mom, his queen, was content. Mom and dad were definitely opposites, however, their relationship strangely functioned seamlessly.
“Hola Hola, reinas,” dad says in a cheerful voice as he gives me a kiss on the forehead while holding a collection of legal sized papers in his hand. Dad was spontaneous, never had an agenda, always flying by the seat of his pants. On the other hand, mom was a planner. “Well, Reinas, how about lunch at Casa Bianca?” dad says as he tensely thumbs through his papers while taking a bite of his warm croissant. “Yum, I want the fettuccini Alfredo and garlic bread.” I say as I rub my tummy. “No, no, fettuccini for you, Lucita, you’re getting too fat, and will not be able to gracefully dismount from the balance beam. “Fine, mom, I will have salad and soup.” “No, Ana, Lucia is going to eat whatever she desires, she’s not getting fat.” “Bueno, mi amor.” mom says to dad and quickly looks at me with a sour face.
Sunday, oh how I dread Sundays, we attend mass in Spanish at St. Ignatius with Father Gonzalez and Deacon Francisco. The homilies were always riveting as fragments of it were applicable to my life. Dad was a devout catholic, and generously donated money to the church. Dad was raised near the vineyards of Mendoza, Argentina, son of Italian parents which migrated to Argentina in an effort to achieve their dream of someday owning a vineyard. My paternal grandfather died in his late 40’s, thus, leaving my grandmother very poor and a large mortgage she couldn’t afford.
Grandmother had to rent the main house, and live in the small guest house where she raised dad to be humble and grateful for the little they had. Dad worked arduously at two jobs to pay the debts, however, managed to graduate from architectural school. After mass, we assembled in the church’s parking lot with other families to decide where everyone was going to meet for lunch.
Mom was raised in Rosario, Argentina, in a mansion which included several acres of land, daughter of wealthy Arabs. Mom was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and attended the most prestigious private schools. My maternal grandfather was opposed to mom marrying dad because he didn’t have a cent to his name. Mom fell in love with dad’s handsomeness, intelligence, and most importantly his compassionate heart.
Monday, Wednesday and Fridays at the YMCA, I attend gymnastics with all the snobby girls who wear the finest leotards from the Danskin store. Dad always managed to build me up, and make me feel worthy. All I ever heard from mom were negative statements about me being fat. At home, every chance I had, I practiced my open pikes, closed pikes, arabesque scales, and so on. I developed a competitive personality and was hard on myself when I failed at anything, especially in gymnastics. It was such an awful feeling to know I had failed, I would sometimes cry myself to sleep because it was so challenging for me to master the uneven bars, nonetheless, ended up mastering with plenty of practice. Mom always managed to make me feel inadequate when I didn’t succeed in something, and when I did succeed, her praises were not heartfelt.
I asked my parents if I could quit gymnastics because it was too stressful to compete. Naturally, dad said he was fine with me quitting gymnastics. Mom stayed quiet, however, as soon as dad left the room, she said she wanted me to stay in gymnastics so I could remain thin. I had such mixed emotions because dad supported my decision while mom opposed it. I sat in my room watching TV with an empty look on my face, wanting to cry for feeling like a complete loser, or should I say a complete fat loser. Suddenly, my blues subsided as I had an epiphany. 'I’ll take ballet lessons since there are no competitions.' “Mom, mom, mom, where are you?” I shout as I run all over the house back and forth, slipping and sliding on the marble floors.
I finally find mom in the patio smoking her cigarette. Mom never smoked in the house or around anyone. Dad didn’t like mom smoking, but accepted it. “Mom, how about if I join ballet at the recreation center?” “Sounds good, let’s sign you up tomorrow,” mom says as she puts out her cigarette in an ashtray hidden behind a big potted plant. “Alessandro, Lucia has decided to take ballet lessons,” mom says to dad as he’s walking in the door with a bag of homemade biscotti given to him by his bank teller, Rebecca.
Rebecca was an exquisite lady with short red hair, and big green eyes. Rebecca was Italian, hence, the mastery of making biscotti. After school, dad and I would sometimes go to the Federal bank where he would patiently wait for Rebecca to handle his transactions. Dad sure took a long time at Rebecca’s window. A few days ago, dad was waiting for Rebecca to clock out of work so we could take her to the mechanic shop to pick up her car. In my mind, I thought that was weird, but nonetheless, I liked listening to Rebecca’s Italian accent. Rebecca was so naturally beautiful, didn’t wear any makeup, just a little lip gloss. I stayed in the car while dad walked Rebecca to the cashier at the mechanic shop. I saw Dad pulling out his bulky wallet to pay the mechanic. Rebecca bestowed dad a kiss on the cheek. I didn’t understand why dad would pay for Rebecca’s bill, is he having an affair with her, I pondered the thought in the compounds of my brain.
Every Tuesday night, I had private acoustic guitar lessons with a lady named Denver who wore an old cowboy hat, beat-up boots, and loose wrangler jeans. Denver wore her long salt and pepper hair in a thick braid. I wanted to learn how to play rock music, but she favored good old country music, like Patsy Cline. At this point, I didn’t really care to learn the guitar, I was just taking the class because Mom wanted me to learn another instrument in addition to the violin. Denver and I spent most of the lesson chatting about her gigs in Hollywood. I enjoyed listening to her stories about people she knew, such as, Johnny Cash and Linda Ronstadt. Gosh, I thought Linda Ronstadt was so pretty, her lovely voice gave me the goose-bumps. I begged Denver to introduce me to Linda Ronstadt, but it never came to a realization because mom ended up firing Denver because she didn’t think she was a good teacher. I still kept in touch with Denver for many years until she died from cancer.
Thursdays, I attended charm school in Pasadena, a place for rich girls with perfectly combed hair and designer clothes. Charm school taught girls proper etiquette. Mom forced me to attend charm school because she thought I was acting like a tomboy. I didn’t understand how climbing trees and jumping from high brick walls constituted being a tomboy. I loved to climb trees with Eric who was a couple years younger than me. Eric had a freckled face, brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore high-water pants and shirts that were too small. I didn’t care, Eric was my best friend.
Mom meant well by sending me to charm school, she wanted me to grow up to be a classy lady and wear pretty dresses adorned with fancy gold necklaces. I dreaded charm school, the other girls loved attending as it gave them a chance to brag about their new nail polish and talk about boys in their school. I didn’t have the same dreams as these girls, such as, getting married to a successful doctor or lawyer and living in Beverly Hills. Instead, I saw myself as the one becoming the lawyer and living in some swanky loft in New York. I thought something was definitely wrong with me, I never imagined myself being married or thought any boys in my school were cute.
It’s Monday, and mom picks me up from school which was always so embarrassing because she always waited for me on campus. Mom looked fabulous with her Givenchy sunglasses that were bigger than her face. All my friends thought mom was sophisticated. I don’t know why it bothered me so much when mom dressed as though she stepped out of vogue. I just wanted her to blend in with the other moms. “Hola Lucita, we’re going to the recreation center to sign you up for ballet. In my mind, I thought, “Oh crap, I forgot about that, dang, me and my big mouth.” I tried so hard to please mom, I just wanted her to be proud of me, and praise me, like dad did. “Excuse me, may I have some help here?” “We’re pressed for time,” mom says while tapping on the counter with her diamond ring that looked like a miniature Eiffel tower. Mom had no patience for employees standing around chit-chatting. Immediately, a young man comes over, taking long strides to get to the counter. “Yes, how may I help you?” the young man says in a deep voice as though he’s ready to salute her. “I would like to sign up my daughter for beginner’s ballet.” Mom says as she observes the facility, not giving the young man any eye contact. I always found it challenging to open up to mom, and talk about my inner feelings. “Wow, the ballerinas are so skinny and delicate” I say to mom while looking at my reflection in the window and disenchanted with what I see. Naturally, that evening mom took me to the mall to buy ballet shoes. I was ready to purchase the first pair of shoes I found. Mom on the other hand, prolonged the day by analyzing the craftsmanship of every shoe.
Finally, school was out for summer, time to relax and go to the pool. Both parents went to work during the day, therefore, I had the house to myself. I decided that summer to go on a strict diet, or should I say starve myself so I can be skinny like the ballerinas at the recreation center. Weeks have gone by, eating very little and drinking a lot of water to the point of not desiring food at all. Dad had been out of town for weeks, working in South America. I always felt somewhat unprotected when dad was not home. Sadly, I feared my mother as her verbal abuse towards me is activated when dad is not around. For years, I wanted to tell dad about mom’s verbal abuse, but, felt bad destroying his pristine image of her.
I noticed my clothes were becoming baggy which mom was happy to donate to the Goodwill and start shopping for new clothes. Mom and I spent a lot of time at the mall shopping for a new wardrobe.
“Mom, I don’t feel well…I feel dizzy.”
“Let’s go home, Lucita”
I went to bed dizzy and with severe stomach pain. The next morning, I hear the front door open and close, it was dad. “I’m home, Reinas, I have some gifts for you.”
Mom makes her way to dad and kisses him.
“Where is Lucia?”
“I’m here, dad…be there in a second.”
“Lucia, you’re pale, and so skinny!”
“Ana, what’s going on, why does my daughter look ill? Ana, are you starving my daughter?”
“No, Alessandro, she has been dieting.”
“Dieting, she doesn’t need to diet!”
Dad walked me to the kitchen and fed me broth and saltine crackers. Mom left the house crying and surprised dad raised his voice at her.
“Don’t worry, my little reina, I’ll take care of you.”
That afternoon, dad took me to the doctor for a check-up. The nurse weighed me, I had gone down from 110 pounds to 80 pounds. Dad was outraged and upset with mom.
“Ana, the doctor said Lucia is an anorexic, did you hear what I said?”
“Alessandro, I had no control, she did this on her own.”
“Ana, you’re constantly telling Lucia she’s fat…of course, she’s going to lose weight with those negative comments.”
The next day, Sunday morning, I woke up and remembered dad wouldn’t be there and I would have to face my mother. I pretended to be sleeping, I was so scared of what she might tell me.
“Lucita, it’s late, please wake up, you need to eat.”
I ignored mom, and buried my face into the pillow. Mom slightly leans over, and pours a glass of water on my face. Mom was mean to me when dad was not around. My stomach was in continuous pain, and headache was more intense than ever. I meander into the kitchen, and mom had served me a large plate of eggs, bacon and pancakes. I think mom was feeding me a large quantity of food to be revengeful. I was barely re-introducing food into my body, the food was nauseating.
“Lucita, please eat all the food or else your dad will be mad!”
I know dad wouldn’t be mad, he would just say eat whatever you can. I forced myself to eat all the food on my plate, I felt so disgusted and ended up vomiting.
“You ungrateful girl, why did you vomit the food?” “Are you trying to cause problems for your dad and me?” “No, mom, I promise, I didn’t purposely vomit.”
Weeks have gone by, and had gained back some weight. I finally felt healthy and in good spirits because mom was on her best behavior when dad returned from his trip. Dad made it a point to place his future travels on the back burner until mom changed her behavior towards me, and encouraged us to attend counseling. Mom and I attended counseling once a week to resolve our mother and daughter relationship.
A year had elapsed, mom’s attitude became positive around me. In one of our counseling sessions, mom disclosed that she never really connected with me as a baby. Naturally, I felt extremely sad when I heard those bitter words come out of her mouth. The therapist explained to both of us that mom most likely suffered from postpartum depression which lingered on for several years. Mom also informed the therapist that dad had an affair during her pregnancy, and felt that she had to do everything in her power to keep dad in love with her, thus, taking it out on me. In our last session, mom expressed a heartfelt apology and asked for forgiveness.
Sadly, dad passed away shortly after mom and I strengthened our relationship.
I forgive you, Mom(Claudette Guerrini)
Los Angeles, California, in the 1980s. Saturday morning, my favorite day of the week, no after-school activities. The aroma of café con leche travels into my small but charming bedroom. I delightfully wake up, vigorously wash my face, and stumble to the kitchen table where mom has handsomely laid out an assortment of fresh breads, specialty cheeses, and fruits. Everything mom did was methodical. The tablecloth and cloth napkins were flawlessly ironed, and the silverware was polished with care. We practically lived in a museum, all the furniture was French provincial, crafted with the finest fabrics and mahogany wood. Oil paintings and sculptures were elegantly exhibited throughout the house.
Dad had a shabby office which he purposely kept disorganized as it was his escape from our unblemished home. Dad had an old recliner in his office which mom had supplicated him to donate to the Salvation Army. Dad refused to relinquish his recliner as it was comfortable and not broken. Dad was very tender with mom and respected her opinions, however, often put his foot down by not letting mom take advantage of his kindness.
“Good morning, mom,” I say as I sweep my overgrown bangs to the side of my face. “Good morning, Lucita,” mom says as she adjusts her apron, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I don’t think I ever saw mom without makeup or unruly hair, she always looked impeccable with her tailored clothing. “Where is dad?” “Dad is in his office, go on, eat your breakfast, and don’t eat too much bread.” “Mom are you going to eat?” I inquire even though I know the response to my question. “No, Lucita, I must watch my girlish figure,” mom says as she sucks in her stomach while holding her voluptuous hips.
All my friend’s moms served breakfast wearing old dusty robes, curlers entrenched in their hair, and gunk still in their eyes. I aspired to grow up to be like mom, confident, elegant, and stylish. I love to lurk through mom’s closet because it has many chic couture clothes, fur coats, fancy shoes in European sizes, and evening handbags with French names impossible to pronounce. Sadly, dad was given a microscopic space for his belongings which he didn’t mind as long as mom, his queen, was content. Mom and dad were definitely opposites, however, their relationship strangely functioned seamlessly.
“Hola Hola, reinas,” dad says in a cheerful voice as he gives me a kiss on the forehead while holding a collection of legal sized papers in his hand. Dad was spontaneous, never had an agenda, always flying by the seat of his pants. On the other hand, mom was a planner. “Well, Reinas, how about lunch at Casa Bianca?” dad says as he tensely thumbs through his papers while taking a bite of his warm croissant. “Yum, I want the fettuccini Alfredo and garlic bread.” I say as I rub my tummy. “No, no, fettuccini for you, Lucita, you’re getting too fat, and will not be able to gracefully dismount from the balance beam. “Fine, mom, I will have salad and soup.” “No, Ana, Lucia is going to eat whatever she desires, she’s not getting fat.” “Bueno, mi amor.” mom says to dad and quickly looks at me with a sour face.
Sunday, oh how I dread Sundays, we attend mass in Spanish at St. Ignatius with Father Gonzalez and Deacon Francisco. The homilies were always riveting as fragments of it were applicable to my life. Dad was a devout catholic, and generously donated money to the church. Dad was raised near the vineyards of Mendoza, Argentina, son of Italian parents which migrated to Argentina in an effort to achieve their dream of someday owning a vineyard. My paternal grandfather died in his late 40’s, thus, leaving my grandmother very poor and a large mortgage she couldn’t afford.
Grandmother had to rent the main house, and live in the small guest house where she raised dad to be humble and grateful for the little they had. Dad worked arduously at two jobs to pay the debts, however, managed to graduate from architectural school. After mass, we assembled in the church’s parking lot with other families to decide where everyone was going to meet for lunch.
Mom was raised in Rosario, Argentina, in a mansion which included several acres of land, daughter of wealthy Arabs. Mom was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and attended the most prestigious private schools. My maternal grandfather was opposed to mom marrying dad because he didn’t have a cent to his name. Mom fell in love with dad’s handsomeness, intelligence, and most importantly his compassionate heart.
Monday, Wednesday and Fridays at the YMCA, I attend gymnastics with all the snobby girls who wear the finest leotards from the Danskin store. Dad always managed to build me up, and make me feel worthy. All I ever heard from mom were negative statements about me being fat. At home, every chance I had, I practiced my open pikes, closed pikes, arabesque scales, and so on. I developed a competitive personality and was hard on myself when I failed at anything, especially in gymnastics. It was such an awful feeling to know I had failed, I would sometimes cry myself to sleep because it was so challenging for me to master the uneven bars, nonetheless, ended up mastering with plenty of practice. Mom always managed to make me feel inadequate when I didn’t succeed in something, and when I did succeed, her praises were not heartfelt.
I asked my parents if I could quit gymnastics because it was too stressful to compete. Naturally, dad said he was fine with me quitting gymnastics. Mom stayed quiet, however, as soon as dad left the room, she said she wanted me to stay in gymnastics so I could remain thin. I had such mixed emotions because dad supported my decision while mom opposed it. I sat in my room watching TV with an empty look on my face, wanting to cry for feeling like a complete loser, or should I say a complete fat loser. Suddenly, my blues subsided as I had an epiphany. 'I’ll take ballet lessons since there are no competitions.' “Mom, mom, mom, where are you?” I shout as I run all over the house back and forth, slipping and sliding on the marble floors.
I finally find mom in the patio smoking her cigarette. Mom never smoked in the house or around anyone. Dad didn’t like mom smoking, but accepted it. “Mom, how about if I join ballet at the recreation center?” “Sounds good, let’s sign you up tomorrow,” mom says as she puts out her cigarette in an ashtray hidden behind a big potted plant. “Alessandro, Lucia has decided to take ballet lessons,” mom says to dad as he’s walking in the door with a bag of homemade biscotti given to him by his bank teller, Rebecca.
Rebecca was an exquisite lady with short red hair, and big green eyes. Rebecca was Italian, hence, the mastery of making biscotti. After school, dad and I would sometimes go to the Federal bank where he would patiently wait for Rebecca to handle his transactions. Dad sure took a long time at Rebecca’s window. A few days ago, dad was waiting for Rebecca to clock out of work so we could take her to the mechanic shop to pick up her car. In my mind, I thought that was weird, but nonetheless, I liked listening to Rebecca’s Italian accent. Rebecca was so naturally beautiful, didn’t wear any makeup, just a little lip gloss. I stayed in the car while dad walked Rebecca to the cashier at the mechanic shop. I saw Dad pulling out his bulky wallet to pay the mechanic. Rebecca bestowed dad a kiss on the cheek. I didn’t understand why dad would pay for Rebecca’s bill, is he having an affair with her, I pondered the thought in the compounds of my brain.
Every Tuesday night, I had private acoustic guitar lessons with a lady named Denver who wore an old cowboy hat, beat-up boots, and loose wrangler jeans. Denver wore her long salt and pepper hair in a thick braid. I wanted to learn how to play rock music, but she favored good old country music, like Patsy Cline. At this point, I didn’t really care to learn the guitar, I was just taking the class because Mom wanted me to learn another instrument in addition to the violin. Denver and I spent most of the lesson chatting about her gigs in Hollywood. I enjoyed listening to her stories about people she knew, such as, Johnny Cash and Linda Ronstadt. Gosh, I thought Linda Ronstadt was so pretty, her lovely voice gave me the goose-bumps. I begged Denver to introduce me to Linda Ronstadt, but it never came to a realization because mom ended up firing Denver because she didn’t think she was a good teacher. I still kept in touch with Denver for many years until she died from cancer.
Thursdays, I attended charm school in Pasadena, a place for rich girls with perfectly combed hair and designer clothes. Charm school taught girls proper etiquette. Mom forced me to attend charm school because she thought I was acting like a tomboy. I didn’t understand how climbing trees and jumping from high brick walls constituted being a tomboy. I loved to climb trees with Eric who was a couple years younger than me. Eric had a freckled face, brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore high-water pants and shirts that were too small. I didn’t care, Eric was my best friend.
Mom meant well by sending me to charm school, she wanted me to grow up to be a classy lady and wear pretty dresses adorned with fancy gold necklaces. I dreaded charm school, the other girls loved attending as it gave them a chance to brag about their new nail polish and talk about boys in their school. I didn’t have the same dreams as these girls, such as, getting married to a successful doctor or lawyer and living in Beverly Hills. Instead, I saw myself as the one becoming the lawyer and living in some swanky loft in New York. I thought something was definitely wrong with me, I never imagined myself being married or thought any boys in my school were cute.
It’s Monday, and mom picks me up from school which was always so embarrassing because she always waited for me on campus. Mom looked fabulous with her Givenchy sunglasses that were bigger than her face. All my friends thought mom was sophisticated. I don’t know why it bothered me so much when mom dressed as though she stepped out of vogue. I just wanted her to blend in with the other moms. “Hola Lucita, we’re going to the recreation center to sign you up for ballet. In my mind, I thought, “Oh crap, I forgot about that, dang, me and my big mouth.” I tried so hard to please mom, I just wanted her to be proud of me, and praise me, like dad did. “Excuse me, may I have some help here?” “We’re pressed for time,” mom says while tapping on the counter with her diamond ring that looked like a miniature Eiffel tower. Mom had no patience for employees standing around chit-chatting. Immediately, a young man comes over, taking long strides to get to the counter. “Yes, how may I help you?” the young man says in a deep voice as though he’s ready to salute her. “I would like to sign up my daughter for beginner’s ballet.” Mom says as she observes the facility, not giving the young man any eye contact. I always found it challenging to open up to mom, and talk about my inner feelings. “Wow, the ballerinas are so skinny and delicate” I say to mom while looking at my reflection in the window and disenchanted with what I see. Naturally, that evening mom took me to the mall to buy ballet shoes. I was ready to purchase the first pair of shoes I found. Mom on the other hand, prolonged the day by analyzing the craftsmanship of every shoe.
Finally, school was out for summer, time to relax and go to the pool. Both parents went to work during the day, therefore, I had the house to myself. I decided that summer to go on a strict diet, or should I say starve myself so I can be skinny like the ballerinas at the recreation center. Weeks have gone by, eating very little and drinking a lot of water to the point of not desiring food at all. Dad had been out of town for weeks, working in South America. I always felt somewhat unprotected when dad was not home. Sadly, I feared my mother as her verbal abuse towards me is activated when dad is not around. For years, I wanted to tell dad about mom’s verbal abuse, but, felt bad destroying his pristine image of her.
I noticed my clothes were becoming baggy which mom was happy to donate to the Goodwill and start shopping for new clothes. Mom and I spent a lot of time at the mall shopping for a new wardrobe.
“Mom, I don’t feel well…I feel dizzy.”
“Let’s go home, Lucita”
I went to bed dizzy and with severe stomach pain. The next morning, I hear the front door open and close, it was dad. “I’m home, Reinas, I have some gifts for you.”
Mom makes her way to dad and kisses him.
“Where is Lucia?”
“I’m here, dad…be there in a second.”
“Lucia, you’re pale, and so skinny!”
“Ana, what’s going on, why does my daughter look ill? Ana, are you starving my daughter?”
“No, Alessandro, she has been dieting.”
“Dieting, she doesn’t need to diet!”
Dad walked me to the kitchen and fed me broth and saltine crackers. Mom left the house crying and surprised dad raised his voice at her.
“Don’t worry, my little reina, I’ll take care of you.”
That afternoon, dad took me to the doctor for a check-up. The nurse weighed me, I had gone down from 110 pounds to 80 pounds. Dad was outraged and upset with mom.
“Ana, the doctor said Lucia is an anorexic, did you hear what I said?”
“Alessandro, I had no control, she did this on her own.”
“Ana, you’re constantly telling Lucia she’s fat…of course, she’s going to lose weight with those negative comments.”
The next day, Sunday morning, I woke up and remembered dad wouldn’t be there and I would have to face my mother. I pretended to be sleeping, I was so scared of what she might tell me.
“Lucita, it’s late, please wake up, you need to eat.”
I ignored mom, and buried my face into the pillow. Mom slightly leans over, and pours a glass of water on my face. Mom was mean to me when dad was not around. My stomach was in continuous pain, and headache was more intense than ever. I meander into the kitchen, and mom had served me a large plate of eggs, bacon and pancakes. I think mom was feeding me a large quantity of food to be revengeful. I was barely re-introducing food into my body, the food was nauseating.
“Lucita, please eat all the food or else your dad will be mad!”
I know dad wouldn’t be mad, he would just say eat whatever you can. I forced myself to eat all the food on my plate, I felt so disgusted and ended up vomiting.
“You ungrateful girl, why did you vomit the food?” “Are you trying to cause problems for your dad and me?” “No, mom, I promise, I didn’t purposely vomit.”
Weeks have gone by, and had gained back some weight. I finally felt healthy and in good spirits because mom was on her best behavior when dad returned from his trip. Dad made it a point to place his future travels on the back burner until mom changed her behavior towards me, and encouraged us to attend counseling. Mom and I attended counseling once a week to resolve our mother and daughter relationship.
A year had elapsed, mom’s attitude became positive around me. In one of our counseling sessions, mom disclosed that she never really connected with me as a baby. Naturally, I felt extremely sad when I heard those bitter words come out of her mouth. The therapist explained to both of us that mom most likely suffered from postpartum depression which lingered on for several years. Mom also informed the therapist that dad had an affair during her pregnancy, and felt that she had to do everything in her power to keep dad in love with her, thus, taking it out on me. In our last session, mom expressed a heartfelt apology and asked for forgiveness.
Sadly, dad passed away shortly after mom and I strengthened our relationship.
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Kevin Hughes
05/13/2018Pearl,
You made it very clear that the active form of the Verb "to love" is Forgiveness. I, for one, am glad you forgave your Mom. Your story echoes a whole lot of what complicated stories we all weave to get to the texture of our own lives. Happy Mother's Day to your Mom, and yourself too, if you are a Mom. Smiles, Kevin
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