The Love Letter my Mother Didn’t Deserve
I did not go to my father’s funeral. He was an asshole of epic proportions, and there was no way I could sit through the eulogies about what a “great man” he was.
It was eight years ago today. My mother and siblings stopped talking to me. I was disowned.
If it was the first time my family had abandoned me, I might have been sadder. But my mother did not believe in “unconditional love” and neither did my sisters.
I was disowned once before, 20 years earlier, when I had a fiancé who was a different color. For Christmas that year I sent my mother the classic movie:
She returned the movie with a short letter, with the gist being that I had made my bed and should lie in it. And goodbye.
After a two year estrangement, I couldn’t take it any more. I called my mother and we both cried. Once I was back in the family fold, my sisters and brother knew it was okay to call me again.
This time, I made an effort to communicate with my mother and sisters right after my father’s death. I left a message on my mother’s answering machine the day of the funeral. It was heartfelt and kind.
Silence.
I sent presents to my nephews for their birthdays. Months later I received written thank you notes instead of the usual phone call. My niece was graduating from high school and I sent her my usual generous check. Once again, a written thank you.
And then everyone went silent.
My husband at the time was shocked. “You’re a 47-year-old woman. You should have the right to say no and have them respect your decision. The question they should be asking is: “Why would a daughter not want to attend her father’s funeral?”
He knew the answer.
Two years later, my mother began to leave messages on my phone.
A nervous Happy Birthday wish. Merry Christmas! with her voice choking back the tears.
But this time I was not going to heal the rift without speaking some difficult truths. So I wrote her a long, long letter and detailed why I had never had a close relationship with Dad. I revealed for the first time that my father had been sexually abusive. I had told her that Dad’s father (my paternal grandfather) had sexually abused me several years earlier. At the time, she said she was sorry that happened. (And that she believed me.)
My sisters intercepted the letter so Mom didn’t have to “read my lies.” I was hurt and insulted that they had taken away my voice. How dare they steal the letter?
After much outrage and everyone attacking me as a liar, I was out of the family circle for good. At least I thought I was.
My mother couldn’t let it go. She refused to believe me. But still wanted a relationship after I admitted I was wrong.
Excruciating phone call after phone call.
“Why have you changed so much? Why are you so angry?” My answer: “Because my grandfather used to put his penis in my mouth and you don’t believe me.” She would shriek something in anger then slam down the phone.
Mom was filled with righteousness and anger on the next call. “I want to speak with the therapist who planted these memories in your mind!” Can you imagine? That basically translates to: it’s a lie so someone had to put it in your brain. You don’t know the truth.
I stood firm.
If you all think I’m a liar why would I be interested in a relationship with any of you?
In 2012, I received an e-mail from my youngest sister:
The text of the email:
Dear Friends,
Tuesday afternoon, April 17th at 4:00pm EST, I will be defending my dissertation as the culmination of my doctoral research. If any of you are interested in either attending in person (Atlanta — Buckhead) or listening into the webinar, you are all very welcome. Keep in mind that this is a rigorous doctoral defense, so my committee is not going to shake my hand and tell me I am wonderful — they will challenge me to defend my research methodology, theory and results of my research. To make it even more interesting, Dr. Mathiassen, is one of the foremost academic experts on the theory I am proposing to adapt, so if nothing else, it will be a lively discussion.
Wish me luck!
Jeanette
My reply:
Why are you sending me this?
We have not spoken in almost two years since you were a total bitch to me. I feel like you owe me an apology, but obviously you are too clueless to ever recognize this. And at this point it’s too late to make amends.
She never replied.
I heard from her one more time, four years later, in November 2016.
Fast Forward to May 2017
Also known as: I opened the door and the devil dipped his toe in
I was free. I was happy. I was an orphan by choice and I knew I had done the right thing by not letting my toxic family back into my life.
But I still loved my mother, through it all. My sisters were dead to me. My brother had only been sporadically in my adult life. I miss him because we had gotten closer over the years, and that was nice.
Although I had said my goodbyes, I wanted to give my mother a parting gift. A love letter. Something to show I loved her still, even if we were estranged. And probably always would be.
It was a few weeks before Mother’s Day, so I wrote her story for her.
My grandfather was a famous American. A titan of industry. He was on the cover of Time Magazine. He won an Olympic Medal and went sailing with Presidents. Some consider him a hero.
My mother was his illegitimate child.
There was a cover up and I assume payoffs to various individuals involved. To keep it secret. It probably would have destroyed his career. It definitely would have been a huge scandal. It was 1933.
My mother bounced around foster homes for years after her birth mother beat the shit out of her. When she obtained her records from child services they said it was the worst case of child abuse in Peoria’s history.
So, I forgive her for a lot. She had a hard life.
Now the last I knew, when we had spoken of it seven years ago, she was 90% certain it was this man. There was a slight chance it might be his son, since their names were the same, Sr. and Jr.
So I wrote her story as I knew it. I wanted it to be her Mother’s Day present. I knew it had always bothered her that she didn’t know for certain whether this great man was definitely her father. By writing her story I hoped it would somehow lead to an answer. It would give me closure to give her this gift.
Plus I wanted to know whether he was my grandfather.
I had a few close friends read it. One said it was my most beautiful writing yet. Everyone thought it was heartfelt and touching. Most thought it would make a great movie.
Then I submitted it to two publications. Neither responded.
I began to wonder if they were afraid to publish it. Because of how famous this man was.
Should I just put the story on my Medium page? What if his people came after me, for destroying his reputation?
I let it sit until late August. But I was kind of obsessed about it. I started and stopped other stories. It was as if I needed to give birth to this story before I could focus and create anything else.
I finally decided I was going to take my story to a high-profile attorney, and be protected when I released it. I was also wondering it we could force a DNA test.
Once I knew the path I should take, I called my mother to give her a heads up. She had recently called with another sad sack birthday message. It was the right time.
Beginning of September.
I call Mom.
We talk for three hours.
Apparently there have been a lot of new developments in the mystery of her father in the past seven years.
Her brother always knew.
She had coffee with her birth mom’s best friend. Oh, yes. Sr. was her father. Grandma’s Bestie had met him several times, when he was “out on the town with Ruth.” They dated for at least a year.
My mother discussed all the visual proof she had. The case files from where she was born, a home for unwed mothers. There were papers with his name on it.
We discussed the theories about her missing birth certificate.
She filled in more details about the coverup and the initial discovery.
I told her details I found in my research. I found a photo of him on the cover of Time Magazine. I had also found photos of him and her in almost identical poses, placed them side by side, and discovered they had the same pattern of forehead lines.
I look in the mirror and my forehead lines are the same pattern.
As we ended the conversation I told her I would send her a link to the story. I asked her to send me any proof she had, so I could take it to the lawyer and also add it to her (revised) story. I said if she didn’t want to send the originals she could have one of my sisters scan them and send me them via email.
The next day I sent her a link to the story, which was in draft form on Medium. I also attached a photo of me from the Women’s March in D.C.
I heard nothing for weeks.
Late October.
Mom finally calls. She leaves a few messages that I ignore.
I’m annoyed. As the weeks have gone by I’ve been in limbo about getting the attorney.
It bothers me that she can talk for three hours about her own abuse. Which everyone believes because she has been talking about it her whole life. And she won’t listen to the story of my abuse for five minutes. Which no one believes because I never talked about it. To protect them.
Meanwhile, I get attacked by a psycho rapist while I’m out walking my dog. I fight him off as I’m calling 911. It’s a long intense battle, and I’m pretty traumatized.
Mom calls the day after. I speak to her, and tell her I’m not up to taking notes about her story. I can’t discuss it. I’m exhausted from the attack.
It was actually nice to have a Mom to talk to at that moment.
Before I spill out all the intense details of my attempted rape, I ask her what she thought of the story I wrote.
“Well, there were a lot of things wrong.”
“Yeah, that was the first draft. It was written before I talked to you and knew all the details.”
“Oh, okay.”
No “thank you for doing this.” She didn’t mention any feelings about the story. It was just wrong.
So much for the heartwarming gift I crafted for her.
She didn’t even mention the photo. She hadn’t seen me in seven years so I thought she might comment on how I looked. But I’m sure that was wrong too.
A few days later she calls again. I can tell she is chomping at the bit. I can tell she’s just waiting for me to finish talking. Finally, she blurts it out.
“When I was looking through my files (of “who is my father?” research) I came across that essay you wrote in college about the farm.”
My heart sinks a little.
“Now, that is a beautiful story. You should publish that. I want the world to read that story.”
She says she will send me a copy so I can publish it. I tell her to send it with the proof she has for the father story.
Now, I had written this piece in college solely for her. She was devastated after we had gone bankrupt and lost the family farm in 1980. She and dad blamed each other for the loss. They were living in different parts of the country and were well on their way to divorce. I wrote it to help her heal. And oh it did. My parents got back together. I regretted that development. I regretted writing it.
A week later I received a xerox copy of the essay, along with a handwritten note. No documents were sent for her father story.
This is what the note read:
“These pages bring out so many feelings. It is absorbed by the mind and felt with the heart.
Each of us have known the happiness of years on that farm, with generations before us feeling that same closeness.
I’m keeping the original papers and sending you copies.
Thank you for writing this story. It is so beautiful.
Please share this with the world.
I love you.
Mom”
That was it for me.
The line I made bold was her way, once again, of denying my story of sexual abuse. My father and grandfather couldn’t have done that to me! Because we were all so fucking happy.
Her denial of my truth was so important to her. So important that she would rather focus on that than on telling the story of her famous father.
And I knew, deep down, if I went to a lawyer and involved her in any way, she would be waving that stupid college paper around to prove I was a liar.
So, to my mother: I withdraw my gift. You don’t deserve it.
First my letter and my voice are stolen by my sisters. Then you deny my words and my truth by calling me a liar. And then you dredge up an old college essay to try and refute my truth. An essay I wrote specifically for you, to help you heal after the trauma of losing our home.
This was not the outcome I expected. But I do have my closure.
