My mother would have been 77 today. She died at age 50 on October 17, 1980. My father told everyone she was 49, because her birthday was only thirty days before and he knew she would have liked that. She hated getting older. I think she might have grown accustomed to the idea eventually, but at 49/50, she hated it. Everything around her was changing and she was terribly unhappy, which I think was the largest contributing factor to her heart attack.
Anyway, it took me years to figure out that my teen angst, forever frozen, was misguided. She was the stability, the driving force, the one who worried and cared and gave a damn.
I’m sorry for those years. I like to think she and I have worked out our differences since, because I’m pretty sure she and her mother are our guardian angels. There have been too many signs and blessings to be unexplained.
Anyway, happy birthday, Mom. Thank you for adopting us. I know that you struggled and that you had the best of intentions. And I know that was love.