Dear Mother

Dear Mother,

I hear stories every now and then. Stories of children abused by their parents. Stories of parents being crack addicts or ignoring their kids or not understanding their kids. I thank God that I don't have that situation.

Then I remember you.

There is no pressure in writing this letter, because the only way you'd ever end up seeing it is by some strange stroke of luck. But would it be luck? I'm not sure I even want you to be aware of this letter. Do you know how many times I've tried to call you up on the phone or even write a simple letter to you? No. You don't.

You see, it took me all the way until eighth grade to realize I hated you. And with a passion too; with a tragic sense of loss, as if you were dead rather than only a state away. It took till that day in eighth grade after I had muddled through the years of denial to realize the truth. Since you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'll spell it out for you.

I hardly remember living with you, but I do remember sporadic pieces from my childhood. I remember being in that trailer you called a home when you had visitation. You know. Before you burned it to the ground for the insurance. I was approximately 4 or 5 years old. There was a lot of noise going on outside, and I walked down the short hallway, intending to go to the front door and see wahat was happening. You rushed through the house and hurriedly told me and my brothers, "Hide! It's the cops!" Even 4 years old, I thought that was strange.

I made it to the front door and looked out the window. Truth be told, there were several police cars. And my father trying to get to the house. I was so upset, and I didn't understand what was going on. All I knew was that Daddy was in trouble, and it wasn't his fault.

Several weeks ago, now age 19, I was in the attic going through some old things with my dad. I came upon a stack of papers. They were photocopies of a family portrait I clearly remember, which is the only one in which my two brothers, my sister, and myself was in. At the top of the pages, the bold words "WANTED: INFORMATION". There, written in cold black and white. My mind was racing. It didn't make sense. Then, it hit me. "Dear God. I was kidnapped." I asked my dad who did it, and mentioned that I was never aware of this ever happened. He responded with quite loathing, "Your mother".

Suddenly, the scene from my early childhood made sense. Mommy dearest, on one day when you'd been allowed to return me home from the race track while my dad finished his races...never returned me home. I was gone for several weeks. Meanwhile, my dad was going crazy with worry. At the racetrack, he called home and got my grandmother. "Is Bridget home yet?"

"What do you mean 'Is Bridget home yet"?" she asked.

"I let Karen take her home," he explained.

"You...asshole"

It took a great deal of money, a private investigator, and a bodyguard to retrieve me, but luckily I am safe today. After learning about how low you, my mother, could stoop. Things fell into place in my mind. Every time you slighted me, I've remembered. The years in between solitary calls. You wanting to read my diary. You visiting every several years completely unannounced. The last visit you made, you couldn't even get my first name right. You kept calling me Christine, my older sister's name.

The last call you made haunts me still. In this call, once again arriving years after I'd seen nor heard from you, you told me how you had to have this liver operation. You were supposedly afraid that this operation would be fatal, so you wanted to call me beforehand, but was unable to because my phone number had changed. Mother dear, that phone number was changed over 8 years ago. Nice lie. Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, you spoke to my dad. About me. Apparently, if anything were to "happen" to me, you wanted my liver.

And so, in the progressive spirit, I leave you behind, Mother. I don't need you, and you've missed your chance anyway. I have a father who cares, and who I know for certain will do anything to keep me safe.

Un-Love,

Your Daughter...Good Ol' What's Her Name.

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