I dont know if I miss my mother

Birthday Cake

Birthday Cake (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember, when other children would ask me, I’d refer to her as ”my mother”. Other children had mums, or mamas, and I talked about her as ”my mother”. When she was alive, I said mum, at least until she went away to hospital, and I didn’t get to see her again. I’d say “my mother” is ill, instead of calling her mum. Something inside me must have known how to keep a distance. Like putting her in a different place, outside and away from me. Maybe I knew she was going to die, even though no one told me. Maybe someone did tell me, and I erased that information from my mind too, didn’t want to know, couldn’t cope with the truth. I was six when she got cancer, seven when she died.

Many mother-daughter things were never done. We never went for a walk in the woods or on the beach. We never went shopping. I can’t remember her buying me things, though she must have. Not sure. I can’t remember staring in a toy store window wanting just THAT doll, and get it.

She never got to help me with homework, or tell me I looked nice before school. Or make my school lunch. All my birthdays before I got to ten, at least, are forgotten. Not one cake, not one present, not one party. I have a recipe for a chocolate cake that taste like something I might remember. Not sure.

I don’t think I miss my mother.

I am not even sure if I miss mother-daughter stuff, my whole childhood got so messed up. I know I miss feeling loved.

I know I miss not having learnt to be a mother myself. Babies don’t come with instructions, and you never get a second chance.

 

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