My adoptive mother and I haven’t spoken in over a year. Her birthday is this month and she probably thinks I’ve forgotten. I hear she’s doing well, but I still worry about her. I’m still not sure what happened the last time we spoke. I don’t remember writing in depth about our conversations that led up to us no longer speaking. I think I did touch on it briefly.
Her and I did talk about my adoption a few weeks before that. She told me that dad and her had split up maybe a month after he’d come back from Vietnam. Of course, none it makes sense to me, but not much of my adoption does. She was noticeably uncomfortable talking about it, but she tried to answer anyway. Honestly, I think it was the parts that involved my adoptive father more than the subject of my adoption that made her so uneasy.
It was “water under the bridge” as far as she was concerned and didn’t want to think about it. She insisted she was having trouble with her health and didn’t need to be stressed. Part of me understood and part of me didn’t care. I understood that she felt she’d done her duty and now just wanted to live out the rest of her life in peace. The other part felt outraged that once again I had to just deal because neither of them wanted to deal with choices they’d made – decisions that had changed my life.
Still, knowing what my adoptive mother went through, I can’t judge her too harshly. After my temper settles down, I try tell myself to just let her be. My empathy for her ultimately wins out. I’m still protective of her in spite of everything that’s passed between us. It’s one of the reasons I don’t write about her very often. Experience has forced me to see the world through her eyes in more ways than she could ever know.
And I still hold on to the slightest of hope that her and I will eventually work out our differences. My adoptive mother and I are weird like that. It’s not the first time we’ve gone long periods of time without speaking. I hope somewhere in her heart, she knows that I have always loved her.
Happy Birthday, Mom.