I can still see it clearly: a sunny day, the two of us standing at the gate of our home. You were waving at her, your eyes glassy, saying, “She did the best she could with what she had.”
You never hid from me that your childhood wasn’t easy, especially your relationship with your mother. I always had the impression she didn’t like you. But perhaps my feelings toward her were shaped by your stories. I don’t believe you were trying to play the victim or turn her into a monster. You simply wanted to share what it felt like to grow up without the love of the one who brought you into the world.
You did know love. Your father adored you. And your grandmother stood as a motherly figure when needed . When you got your first period, it was to her that you ran.
What kind of mother-daughter relationship is it when, in one of the most important moments of your young life, you did not go to your own mother? You didn’t feel you had the space, the freedom, or the love to turn to her.
Many times you told me about the beatings, the neglect, the sudden flashes of fury, the harsh and cold words.
I resented her. For you.
How could anyone treat you like that? You — the one who always took care of others. The one who showed up. Who smiled. Who told jokes. The one who brought sunshine wherever she went.
How could she?
And yet you said, “She did the best she could with what she had.”
In my youthful anger, I answered, “How can you say that? She was awful.”
“After I became a mother myself, I understood her better,” you said.
I am a mother now.
I cannot wave at you from the porch of my own house, but I want to say this: You did the best you could with what you had. I understand you.
You were not as unstable — and certainly not as unloving — as your mother. But of course you made mistakes. There were things you did that I would never do as a mother. Some of them left scars on me.
But you know what? It is okay.
We try.
We fail.
We make mistakes.
We grow and change.
We ask for forgiveness.
And we give grace.
I think about that young mother, raised by German immigrants. She had one child soon after marrying, and three months later she was pregnant again. The oldest was ill and needed constant care. Two babies. No help. Only forests and fields as company. Perhaps exhaustion and loneliness have many names.
I think about that young mother with a man-child for a husband and difficult in-laws. She did not have her own mother’s support — or anyone’s, really. She was young and inexperienced, unprepared for how much would be asked of her. When labor began, she did not know what it meant to bring a child into the world. How could she? No one had prepared her.
I think about that not-so-young mother across the ocean, raising her children in a foreign country, in a foreign language. Trying to navigate motherhood while carrying fear, doubt, and loneliness.
I wish I were still standing there on that sunny day, at the gate of our house. I wish I could turn to you and say, “I understand now. We do the best we can with what we have.” And together, we would wave goodbye to the one who came before us.
With love,
Kelly
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