The Resurrected Mother

I’ve been talking to my mother for a couple of days. I accidentally sent her a friend request on Facebook and she intentionally sent me a message, so I begrudgingly replied, because Acid God told me that I had to.

She says her new husband has made her a better person. You know, the one she threw me to the wolves for. Adam left me for another woman and I had nothing, no job, no child-care, no car, not a single cent to my name. I asked her to help me so I didn’t lose the boys and she put down new roots in that old Pennsylvania hometown instead.

I get it, she had gone there to start over after yet another of my father’s betrayals. The ongoing affair that he’d started a year prior had finally ended with suicidal apologies and my mother moving him back in. It was Thanksgiving and they prepared dinner together and we went around the table, each of us taking our turn to say grace. She thanked God that Dad’s internal darkness had been conquered by propriety and that he’d been safely returned home. To new beginnings, and forgiving as we’ve been forgiven.

In under a week, he was packing his shit to go sleep in the concubine’s bed. I popped over to pick up some of my stuff, Adam and I had just moved out, and she was crying so hard she couldn’t speak. I lay her head in my lap and stroked her hair until her pain subsided enough to allow for modesty and she straightened her spine. She was still crying when she came to say goodbye to my children three days later before she boarded the plane home.

So she met a guy who helped her process her pain, and doing so helped her to become something besides it. Cool.

But when I was sitting there, at the Church of self actualization, sweating my ass off in a borrowed car that my dad was soon to take, waiting on the homeless mental health clinic to fill my prescription for Klonopin and Pristiq, contemplating the efficacy of throwing myself into traffic, I needed her. When Adam tormented me for months, little by little taking ownership of my children and crushing my soul, and I was starving, eating nothing but peanut butter and stealing toilet paper from public bathrooms, I needed her.

Instead, when my children wound up abused in their primary home and in their school and I called everyone I had to call and did everything I had to do to make sure they were okay, including spending a few days in jail, she rallied the masses on the internet to have me martyred and branded a whore for speaking out. She messaged my friends to tell them I was a liar. She denied what she had seen first hand herself for the sake of seeming justified in her crusade and though I stood somehwhat victorious, again I stood alone.

So what, she just gets to be a better person now? She gets to forget about everything she did? Make up some bullshit excuse and act like she fucking knows better? Well, I fucking know better. That woman is only different until she’s not. Today a saint, tomorrow the devil herself.

Forgive her, the Acid God said. While she’s living? I didn’t think I’d have to see her again til she was dead.

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