How do you tell someone the entire story of your life? How do you find those kinds of words? As if sensing my dilemma, he let his hand drop, grabbing mine. “How about your mother. Tell me about her.” My mother. I had such guilt about my mother. I remembered when I left, how I had learned to hate her. Almost as much as my father. More at times. Because she was supposed to protect me. She was supposed to save me from his torment. And I hated her for letting me suffer while she stood by and did nothing. It took me a long time, maybe a year after I found what had happened, to forgive her. To understand. “My mom was damaged. She was raised with an abusive father. I think it was easy for her to just... continue the cycle, bow down before another abusive man. And she was never good enough for my father. He was always picking at her. At how she cooked, how she cleaned house, raised us. But, most of all, how she wasn't a religious enough woman.”
