Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 164533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
“We married only a few months later,” Mom went on. “But I was anxious and insecure. I felt inadequate for not being your biological mother, and a part of me fretted that your father was still in love with Nadine. I begged him to let me raise you as my own, to never tell you who your real mother was. I wanted you to be mine, but I also didn’t want you growing up with the stigma of Nadine’s mental illness hanging over you. I didn’t want you worrying about the hereditary aspect, wondering if the same would befall you.”
A sinking feeling hit. In all the drama of this revelation, I hadn’t even thought about Nadine’s condition. I was only eighteen, and Nadine, my birth mother, hadn’t been diagnosed until her early twenties. Did that mean there was a chance I might develop it, too? Was that what awaited me in my future?
“Your Aunt Jo and her side of the family were completely against it. They wanted you to know where you came from, and I see now they were right, and I was wrong, but I was wrapped up in my own issues, and I couldn’t see the clear picture. I convinced your father to move back to America, to Boston, where he grew up and start a new life for ourselves away from everyone who might remind him of the woman he’d lost.”
“So, that’s what you did,” I said flatly.
“Jo and Padraig came to visit us those first couple years, bringing the kids so you could know your cousins. But then one year, Jo tried pushing the issue of telling you about Nadine again, and I lashed out. Padraig and I fought, too, since he agreed with his wife. It’s why we didn’t speak for all those years.”
I stared at my hands in my lap, a short silence falling.
“And what did Dad think?” I asked in a whisper. “Was he on your side or theirs?”
Pain flashed across her features. “Honestly, I think your father was torn. One part of him wanted me to feel secure and happy as your mother while another part he didn’t voice probably thought you should know the truth of where you came from. I could see that conflict in him, but I selfishly let him live with it because I was too fearful and insecure.”
Poor Dad. To me, he’d always seemed like such a cheerful, carefree guy, but he’d lived with a secret conflict for all those years. Maybe it showed how much he really did love Mom even if he still mourned Nadine. He’d started a whole new life with Mom and kept the secret so she could feel safe in our little family.
“I understand if you hate me,” she went on in a watery voice. “It was despicable, keeping the truth from you and taking you away from Jo and her sisters. I let my selfishness and fear take over.”
“I don’t hate you.” It was true. In my mind, she was my mom, the only one I’d ever known. She loved me and raised me, made sure I never had a worry in my mind about who I was or where I came from. Yes, it was a selfish and flawed decision she’d made, but maybe, ultimately, she wasn’t completely wrong to do it. Maybe growing up oblivious to my birth mother’s illness and suicide was better.
Then I thought of Aunt Jo who was still my aunt, but not by marriage as I’d always believed. How awful must it have been for her, having to lie and pretend like her sister never existed? I remembered the morning when Nuala’s Aunt Julia, who was actually my aunt, too, had looked at me like she’d wanted to burst into tears.
Her expression had stayed with me. It confused me, and now, I knew why.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally responded, and Mom scooted closer, putting her arm around my shoulders, and I let her. I knew it had to be terrifying to tell me all that, just lay everything bare when it was going to reflect so badly on her. With Dad dead, I was all she had in the world, and I refused to reject her despite what she’d done. She’d devoted her life to me when she’d had no reason to. I’d gotten to grow up with both a mom and a dad who loved me, and that was far more than I might’ve had otherwise. So, even though the lie was terrible, and I hated what it must’ve done to Aunt Jo and her sisters, I couldn’t hate Mom for it. Yes, it was terribly selfish, but she’d just been trying to survive the best way she could, forge a life, and lying was the only way she knew how to do that.