My brother Larry thought Mom was a good mother, but he had a different childhood than we did. My sisters were convinced otherwise: Carleen complained Mom was thoughtless and self-centered, Betty resented her for abandoning us, and Claudia simply thought she was weak—all of which was true, by the way. I was never under the illusion I had a bad mother, I was under the illusion I had the wrong mother, and although I was not under the illusion she loved me, I hoped she might someday. I was raised by omission, but neglect doesn’t leave a scar, it leaves a hole. Some say holes are harder to heal. Fortunately, I only lived with Mom from the time I was five until I was nine. I figure that’s why I’m not completely neurotic… or dead.
Writing our story was a five-year journey. A magnitude of personal growth work put it into perspective; a writing class helped me get it down on paper. It’s about doors opened, closed, and locked, and about a family so complicated you’ll need a scorecard.
My siblings loved my writing. But a change of heart on my sister’s part regarding the story she said I could include about her kidnapping and the aftermath caused a major rift. Not to be cast out, and to honor her wishes, I put the book away. For the next five years, I worked on our genealogy. It was safer. They were dead. My sister has since passed, along with enough time, so I returned to finishing “the book.”…