My sister and I arrived at our mother’s house on a Wednesday; it was her turn to care for us. Though tears often filled her eyes, that day they were particularly heavy.
“Girls, please come to the living room. We need to talk,” she said, a warning that sent my heart racing. I braced myself, recalling the day she whisked us away from our father’s home during her dramatic exit. As she sobbed, I wrapped my arms around her, trying to offer comfort. “I’m here for you, Mom,” I whispered.
Then came the bombshell: “Your stepfather and I are bankrupt. We’re moving to Oklahoma on Friday, and you’ll be living with your dad.” In just two days, she would leave, moving out of state without us. Her increasingly erratic behavior over the years had already begun to erode our relationship, but this was a blow I never saw coming.
Mothers don’t abandon their children. I thought our bond, forged through flesh and spirit, would keep us connected forever. But here we were, and I felt my heart sink as I suppressed my pain, wondering why I wasn’t enough to make her stay.
I clung to the hope that, despite her move, she would still be my mother, just a phone call away. As the two-day countdown began, I pondered what to do with our remaining time together.
I approached her in the kitchen, but before I could speak, she interrupted: “I’m going to visit Ava. She’s having a tough time and needs me.”
Her words hit me like a slap. My mother was prioritizing a friend over her own daughters on our last night together. Although they had spent many nights out while I was left alone, I had foolishly hoped our final evening would be different.
“What about us?” I wanted to scream, but I merely nodded, holding back my emotions. She suggested we use the time to pack for our dad’s house. Neither of us could drive, so we silently began filling suitcases.
I barely remember her coming back that night. I slept soundly until the alarm rang for school. Friday arrived, and her flight was only hours away. My sister walked to her school nearby while I packed the car for the final drop-off. The weight of silence was suffocating, so Mother turned up the radio, but soon she was crying again. I reminded myself: don’t cry, be strong.
Minutes from our destination, she said, “Honestly, I’m not worried about you. I’m only worried about your sister. Promise to look after her.” I promised.
I stepped out of the car to hug her goodbye, saying I loved her. She returned the sentiment but never mentioned keeping in touch after her move. There was no plan for us.
In a daze, I entered school, feeling like an outcast. The bell rang, and she was gone. My father sent a colleague to pick me up, and I felt a wave of embarrassment at needing a ride like a motherless child. It wasn’t just my father’s busy life that hurt; it was his emotional distance.
We went to our mother’s empty house to collect our things. She would be back briefly the following week to retrieve her furniture and car, not even for a visit. My sister and I tried to cheer each other up, dancing to Michael Jackson songs as if we were celebrating rather than mourning the life we once had.
As the sun set, hunger set in, and I felt anger that we had been left alone. Mother’s car remained in the driveway, and despite never having driven before, I decided to take it and get us something to eat.
Being the goody-two-shoes child, I had never broken the rules. But without parents, I felt the need to act. I took back roads to a fast-food place, paranoid about being caught as a teen driving her mother’s car. Once we had food, I panicked and turned off the main road like a getaway driver, spilling our drinks everywhere.
“You idiot!” I cursed at myself as I tried to clean up the mess. I eventually confessed to Mother about taking her car that day, but she only shrugged, sharing stories of her own reckless youth.
Weeks passed, and I decided to call her, but when she answered, her tone was brusque. “What do you need?” I stuttered, “Just wanted to talk.” She didn’t have time for me, and I realized her role as my mother had ended when she left town.
What did I need, anyway? I didn’t need a ride or advice; I needed a mother. So, I stopped calling, except when nostalgia would wash over me. I longed for the warmth of a mother’s love, which only deepened my sense of loss.
When I did reach her on the phone, she felt like a stranger. Something had changed. Was it her, or was it my memory? I tried to express my confusion, but she insisted she hadn’t changed and guilted me for our fractured relationship.
I had forgiven her for leaving, but I could not connect with the woman who had taken her place. After her next divorce, she sold everything and began moving around, calling herself a “Gypsy” who lived off the land. Eventually, I lost touch with her entirely.
For a time, she was even homeless, and I realized that her traumatic past had likely led to untreated mental health issues. Each time she contacted me, I mourned our relationship all over again. Through therapy, I learned that families can grieve the loss of a member to mental illness as if they had died.
I yearned for her presence, but she was absent. I felt a void as she faded from my life, yet I never stopped loving the idea of her.
Many years later, my sister and I visited her on an island she had found, seeking happiness in paradise. She joined us on a public submarine tour, but I felt like I was with a distant relative. When I turned around, I found her sobbing in a corner, and my instinct was to comfort her once again.
This was how our relationship had always been—me as her caretaker, while the daughter I was faded away.
Traumas seemed to pass unchallenged from one generation to the next, leading me into relationships that mirrored my suffering until I resolved to stop the cycle. I accepted the painful truth: I didn’t have a mother who participated in my life.
It felt unfair to witness others with their mothers, deepening my pain. A mother is meant to be a source of unconditional love, a protector who would never abandon you.
Where was mine? Traumas and mental illness had taken her from me.
In faded memories, I once thought I knew her. But now, I only watched her drift away, just as I did.
“Maybe we will meet again someday, where our traumas are washed away, and only love remains.”
Until then, I will learn to mother myself, ensuring that the lost child searching for her mother will not be abandoned again.
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Search Queries:
- How to navigate a mother’s abandonment
- Coping with parental loss
- Understanding mental illness in families
- The effects of childhood trauma
- Building self-love after loss
Summary:
This poignant narrative recounts the author’s experience of her mother abandoning her and her sister, detailing the emotional aftermath and the struggle to cope with the loss of maternal support. Through a series of reflections, the author explores themes of trauma, mental illness, and the journey to self-love and acceptance.
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