They’re called family because they hurt you the most

I haven’t seen my mother in five years. During the five years, I had a miscarriage, a sick baby, and then a divorce. She called me one day, out of the blue and said she’ll visit.

***

The miscarriage

I knew the miscarriage was coming. The doctors confirmed that there was still no heartbeat and we were just too far along. “If it doesn’t get expelled soon enough, it could cause real danger,” the doctor said. No one knew my body would decide to expel the dead tissue on my way home from work. I wore my favourite long twill coat that day. It did a good job of soaking up most of the blood, saving the seat on the train from the stain. I haven’t been able to wear my coat ever since, though. The blood left weird patches of brown and an inexcusable metallic smell.

I told my mother about my miscarriage that day, as a matter of fact. And she felt sad. I could tell because she sent me three heart emojis, and the last one was a broken one.

***

The sick baby

I wasn’t nervous. I’d been wanting a baby so badly, I didn’t think labour would scare me. I pushed and the baby arrived, I was in tears. They handed my little bundle to me and he rested on my chest. Up and down, he moved at the pace of my breath and listened to my heartbeat. And then the doctors took him away. He needed intensive care, they said. Five weeks went by and our little guy came home with a complicated apparatus connected to him, to keep him alive. Those days we argued incessantly, taking breaks only to feed our child, change a diaper, or wipe the blood that was oozing out of his body.

Just a week after I gave birth, I showed my mother pictures of my little love. I was careful to crop out most of the tubes and bandages so that he didn’t look too sick. I knew I did a good job because my mother simply congratulated me, she didn’t ask.

***

The divorce

A year ago I told my mother I was getting a divorce. I knew she read my message because of the blue checkmarks, but she didn’t reply. Instead, my aunt came by to drop off some things and a bit of wisdom sent from my mother, “Don’t be so up tight,” she said. I nodded, turned around and closed the door behind me. It was rude of me to not say bye, but we learn to move on, right? That was something I picked up from my ex-husband, “We all learn to move on,” he said. “You’re just like your mother,” he also said. And, “Maybe you should go talk to someone,” he said tenderly, just before he left.

When I told my mother about the divorce, I had a follow up message typed and ready to go: “Will you come visit?” it read. But I didn’t hit send because I couldn’t bear to know.

***

The arrival

My mother arrived on a Monday evening. She liked to fly on weekdays, she told me, to avoid the crowds. I took the afternoon off from work that day, so that I could pack the baby and my emotions before meeting my mother.

She called the moment she arrived, making sure I wasn’t late. I pulled up in my SUV and stopped where she was waiting. Her frown loosened, but it didn’t go away completely. The deep ridges left from decades of frowning could never go away completely. I got out of the car and went straight for the luggage. She went straight for the backseat window, looking for her grandson.

My mother always had a thing for fancy luggage. The flowery stylish kind, made of fabric, and dozens of hidden compartments for infinite expansion. Her luggage, was always heavier than it looked. As I lifted her suitcase into the car, I remembered this little detail about her, and felt sorry that she had to come all this way, perhaps, to see me.

“Let’s go, ma.”

She glanced at me and nodded vaguely, slightly hunched over, supported by a hiking stick in her right hand. She limped a few steps forward to the passenger side, opened the door, and then stopped. Watching her silhouette from behind, I remembered, she never used to limp before. But her pause, an inaudible exasperated sigh, and the way her shoulders dropped, told me without even looking at her face, that she was oozing with discontent.

Had I been a stranger, standing in a different place, watching her from a different vantage point, I may have noticed how distraught she looked. I may have clued in on how she could not climb into the SUV, not with her bad hip and wobbly knees. I may have read into her deep wrinkles a little bit more. I may have even guessed that she’s been abandoned, first by her parents, then by her husband, and perhaps now, by her children. I would’ve noticed the bags beneath her eyes, filled with worry and uncried tears. And from the look of pain on her face I would’ve understood how much the limp bothered her, not because it winced in physical pain, but because it carried a heavy, worrisome frown. It was the kind of frown that had roots and reached deep into her soul. The kind of frown that questioned her entire self worth, whether she would be able to survive on her own, alone.

But in that moment, from where I stood, I was infuriated. I imagined myself speeding down a highway, weaving through traffic, fuelling fury with recklessness. All that, while I obediently helped my mother into the car. I quietly collected this memory, a piece of evidence of her lack of love for me. I would use it one day, I thought, when one of us decides to unpack our emotions. 

Turns out that day would come, but that memory would be useless. Because my mother would defiantly say that she did visit me after all, didn’t she? But she would blame me for how useless she felt, not being able to get into the car herself. I would tell her that she’s missed the point. I’d ask why didn’t she just give me a hug knowing everything that I’d been through. And then I’d regret asking immediately, because of how petty it sounded. We would both feel cheated. We would both feel incredibly small. We would both cry. And then we would both pack it all up again and move on. 

All of that’s for later, though. In that moment, I simply drove away, carrying my child, my mother and her luggage.