Happy Mother’s Day. I don’t have many photos of my mother—she was shy about cameras, always insecure and self-conscious. Corona. That’s her in the middle. I wonder what I’m holding… a candle? A wand? It was taken in either Charleswood or Transcona, Manitoba—we moved a lot. Back when coffee tables were laden with ashtrays and doilies. We were dressed for church, my sister’s christening.

I always feel conflicted about this day. I loved my mother, of course—she’s the only mother I’ll ever have—but she was not easy to love. Her childhood was traumatic, and that pain twisted her. My sisters and I survived the generational abuse, just as she had. But her deepest betrayal was the lifelong lie about my paternity. That deception cost me a relationship with a good father I would have loved—one who would have loved me back. Protected me. I’ve written about it here before.
Maybe that’s why I waited so long to become a mother myself. Life is complicated. But I’m here now, blessed to be a mom, and the experience has provided something rare: perspective and grace.