So, my mother called today. I didn’t answer. The last communication was in August, when she sent me a message that she loves me, and I elaborated why that was not true. I wrote: “If that were true, I would not go through the hell that my childhood was, and you would not be ruthlessly harassing me with your hostility my whole adult life, without a shred of compassion. You burdened me with responsibility for your happiness, but your sense of emptiness has nothing to do with me. That love of yours was always just an excuse to do whatever you like. To throw a tantrum if I don’t call, to be bothered by my choices, to insult me, after all, whenever things were not to your liking. After a lifetime of being treated that way, that “I love you” has no weight whatsoever, because I paid for it dearly on the deepest human level, that no one can ever compensate.”
I mean every word that I wrote. And still, I was all but shaking when I’ve seen her identification on the phone screen.