I finished reading a memoir of a painful childhood by a favorite writer who tenderly depicts suicide, secret affairs, abject neglect, and intellectual genius in her family.

It touches my heart, partly because when I was in my early twenties, I was engaged to the little brother in the story.

In being reminded of what he had gone without, and lost, in his vulnerable early years, which ultimately played out in the demise of my first true love story, I cried for both of us.

Looking back, way back, at him from my current midlife mom position, I feel maternally protective and soft-hearted toward him. I start feeling how I failed him as he was falling into self-destruction.

I walked away.

Having children is the difference in my reading his story and changing his depiction in my life story.

I understand the child in the story more deeply, having lived the vulnerabilities of my own trusting and permeable babies. Kids gave me a bigger heart and eased my sharp judgment.

One memory from long ago with the man in this book, so long wrapped in anger at his seeming betrayal of poor me, is allowed some breathing room. My little autobiography can expand, allowing the true dimensionality of people I loved and counted on to unfold.

My maternal self has given me the gift of being able to forgive, remembering that we’re all someone’s child and none of us was born wanting anything more than to be loved.

By Avvy Mar

Labels: Avvy Mar

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