On the day before my mother’s birthday I call her to tell her about the book I’ve written, my first work of nonfiction.
“It was just released last week,” I say. “And mom? I’ve done a couple interviews, and…well, people want to know about my childhood.”
She is quiet on the other end. This is a tender place for us. I’ve hurt her before in the telling of our story. In the trying to find a new way, I’ve questioned and judged the past; I’ve questioned and judged her. And there’s been a lot of water pass under the bridge for us to come to this place of calm.