Member-only story
I Didn’t Go to My Mother’s Funeral
When family relations break down
I didn’t go to my mother’s funeral. That is a hard thing to talk about here — because I am wary that someone from my family could come across the story. But I will give it a shot — with the assumption I have an anonymous audience.
There I was, in traffic, the usual, on Forest Ave., in Portland, Maine, after dropping my children off at their high school. A typical morning. Nothing out of the ordinary was to be expected.
I received a surprising text. From my brother, with whom relations were soured at the time. It read,
“Mom died.”
Boom. There it was. A simple message on my flip phone, first thing in my day, after getting lunch made and two kids off to school.
Things had been sticky for a while between my brother, his wife, and myself. That is an understatement. Our relationship had been breaking down terribly for a few years, all wrapped around dealing with my mother’s health and living situation. Trust was broken, cooperation had crumbled, and people were hurt and disappointed on both ends.
