My Mother Didn’t: by Christopher P. Mooney
CW: Death, grief
My mother didn’t know I moved to England, which really isn’t much different.
My mother didn’t see me drive a car.
My mother didn’t visit my home.
My mother didn’t find out about my chronic illness. It plagues me still.
My mother didn’t attend my wedding, where I spilled cheap champagne all over my sister-in-law’s expensive dress just after giving a speech that was mostly drowned out by my cousin’s baby’s crying. Her name – the baby’s name – is Ramona. She’s twelve now.
My mother didn’t care that I had last-minute doubts and considered running away with one of the waitresses.
My mother didn’t meet her six grandchildren, who would surely have adored and been adored by her.
My mother didn’t grieve for her eldest son, whose death at forty haunts my every waking moment.
My mother didn’t worry about my mental health, which is undeniably fragile.
My mother didn’t help me when I got divorced. I wonder what she would have made of the fact I didn’t try hard enough to keep the cats.
My mother didn’t see me run, infrequently, slowly, but with that determination she so admired.
My mother didn’t stand a chance against cancer.
My mother didn’t tell me she was dying.
My mother didn’t know I really loved her?
My mother didn’t reach her sixty-second birthday.
Christopher P. Mooney lives and writes in someone else's small flat near London, via Glasgow and Paris. Find him online as @ChrisPatMooney