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Some apologies never come

This is so true for me.

My mother told me she was free and done with me (she never told me if she read my book, so I am only using conjecture at her ugly response). Did she read my memoir? I’ll never know. Let that sink in. The healing of our relationship, that could have happened after reading her part in my life, will not happen for she and I. I will never receive any apology from either of my parents and I have to realize that I truly don’t even want it, after that kind of hurtful response.

My family makes it difficult for me to trust others very easily. My mother told me for two months how much she wanted to see me and my brother together again, even going as far as telling me that she loved me for the very first time (to which I asked her to stop suddenly saying that). And then two additional months went by with radio silence and then she texted me the above random message. Trust is not something I have an abundant supply of in my life.

If I ever told any of my children (after reliving something that I did to my child that had a hand in destroying any semblance of a normal childhood) that I was free and done with them (and then called them a crybaby in so many words), my husband would know that I’d officially gone insane. I could never do that, simply never.

That kind of negative response is jarring and yet, also let’s me reflect on my memoir and think, maybe I got it right?

Did I write something that helped convey my childhood pain?


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