Mummy, you look long and hard into my eyes, searching I suppose for reassurance of my love for you. You cry when you see me, get angry when I’m with you for those many days we have been apart, making it mean I don’t want you or love you. You can do that if you want but it must be so painful – searching for proof that you’re right and finding it, of course. We always do.
But you could as easily choose another way of looking at it: that I love you with all my heart, that I ache for my mother’s love and friendship, knowing that I cannot spend the time with you that I would like. I do not deceive myself or you: I choose to pursue my career and other commitments but I also choose to put time aside for you each week, aware at least that you are safe and have companionship that was missing in that painful period when you lived alone.
It seems such a waste of our limited time together to have you vent your frustrations and be miserable, only to be cheerful when I am not around – I ask you to forget your self-torturing perspective and enjoy my visits as concentrated moments of love and connection.
And as I hug you hard and your resistance melts, I feel the love flow freely between us like a warm, regenerative life-blood filling my heart with joy and leaving me satisfied with my diversion on the way to work. I love you, dear, and always will.
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