Having my mom here is almost like being in therapy; I’m learning so much about my self and life.

I’ve reconciled myself to the notion that my mother and I aren’t unalike; with our only dissimilarities being time and life choices.

I was thirteen years old the last time I lived under the same roof with my mother for more than a month, life was supposed to be simpler back then. She was responsible for me and I wasn’t supposed to worry, except I worried all the time – my teenage years it seem were spent in despair.

I asked her if she remembered the adolescent years, she had a wry smile that lingered on for a little too long and looked away as if she hadn’t heard the question.

We still don’t talk about certain things. A few nights ago, I went from thinking I knew all our dirty little secrets to finding out yet another appalling thing about my father. But its effect wasn’t just about my father; it was also about my mother and our little dysfunctional clan.

My father’s deeds, which some might even call criminal, wasn’t at all shocking to me. It was however disappointing because it outlined a fray in my parents relationship long before the glorious doom.

Another family member let this slip during a discussion with my mother; it came as quite the revelation to me. I’m not sure what disappointed me the most, what my father did or my mother’s reaction afterwards.

I haven’t been able to get my mom to elaborate on the issue since then, she simply clamped up.

I feel I’m sometimes too hard on her, it feels like I’m constantly questioning her choices or challenging her decisions.

There are those women who’re afraid of turning into their mothers and there are those like me, who wish their mothers had acted a little bit more like them.

We’re all wrong, of course.