A week ago, the woman who brought me into this world died. We’d be estranged for nearly 8 years. People came out of the woodworks to find me. I didn’t know how to feel aside from bitter and enraged.
My feelings errupted at the end of last week. I was briefly consumed by the feelings that I let go of years ago. But somewhere in the depths, I was able to let go of the anger that I held about what happened to me and set focus back to my brother.
My brother was left out of the obituary. He is 10 years my junior, has special needs from cerebral palsy, marfans syndrome, and fragile x syndrome. His father has done an amazing job being a loving and supporting parent. My brother is set to graduate highschool soon, works a few hours per week, and is slated to start college next year. Not bad for a kid who was abandoned by his mother and has had considerable bumps down the road.
Leaving him out of the obituary enfuriated me. I couldn’t understand why I, someone who voluntarily left and cut my mother out of my life, was included, but an innocent boy was not. I tried to contact her husband to voice my concerns, but my attempts were ignored. I didn’t feel right about it. It wasn’t fair. At first, I had no idea what to do.
I contacted the funeral home. I explained who I was and offered to provide proper documentation to prove my identity if necessary. I gave my mother’s name and explained that her step children and myself were listed, but that her biological son was not, and that in light of our estrangement, I would like to be removed from the posting if he wasn’t to be included. I never received a reply, but my name was removed.
After, I contemplated attending the funeral. I still get that nagging “But it’s your mother” from people who don’t understand the history. After talking to my ex step father, he explained that my brother doesn’t know much about her and that he hasn’t told him anything. He didn’t plan on attending. That also gave me relief. I decided to not attend either.
Something about her death gives me closure. I’ll never know or understand why she did the things that she did. Part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me doesn’t care either. And that’s okay.