Doubt and reconciliation
I’m not sure I like Ma. I look after her out of duty, and the love that we had for one another a long time ago. The way she used to be. But she is so eaten up with bitterness, hate, prejudice, snobbishness, fear. She plays victim and wins me by always appealing for pity. She is forlorn, sad, hopeless. But in truth she is so much stronger than she appears, she is full of rage and hate and disappointment which she never expresses because she can’t. She fears she would be thrown out.
But she wouldn’t be thrown out. We could have an honest conversation, take hold of the truth. I’d prefer that. Like this there is nothing to hold on to. She is slippery but cannot help showing her sharp edges when she feels strong enough, just occasionally. She is imperious, critical, and watchful. Her eye to details is still all there, she takes great pleasure in exposing mistakes and slack work.
This is harsh. Of course, she is just Ma: very sad, dependent and quiet. She is in great need, wounded. I am her daughter and she has been the best of mothers to me.