When I was a boy, my mom did everything possible to help me. She spent hours patiently teaching me to read at an early age. She valiantly tried to ensure I knew the difference between right and wrong. She scribbled pencil notes on the hard-boiled eggs I found in my school lunch bag. I often fought back, thinking she had no idea what she was talking about. After all, she was just a mom who was always mad at me and was unhappy with everything. On or about my 13th birthday, my parents divorced; my sister and my mom went to live with my beloved grandmother.
At that point, in a massive demonstration of stupidity on my part, I went to live with my dad and his hosebag girlfriend, whom he married, and whom I hated. On one epic day, my father was railing at me for some grievance I caused. He was furious and, at one point, screamed at me, “If you don’t like it here, leave.” Within 15 minutes, I did just that, never ever returning to live in his (and hosebag’s) home.
Forward decades later. One evening, I was reading in my living room, and like a bolt of light, I sat up and out loud said to myself, “My mom wasn’t mad at me over the years; she was beaten down by my asshole father”. It was a truth that would make everything clear to me. I instantly prayed to God and to her for forgiveness. Now, every time I think of her, it’s with love and understanding. I think she smiles and hears me.
Are we there yet? 