months. I’ve ignored her calls and I haven’t responded to her emails. I didn’t even open the letter she sent me. One of my friends once said to
me, “Having kids is like a drug. They heighten your experience of living, but destroy you in the process.” I laughed. I just assumed she was joking. But looking back, I realise now, that there were times I destroyed parts of you. When I’ve made you sob with frustration, when I’ve made you feel like a failure, when you’ve been racked with worry over some of the choices I’ve made in my life. It’s been more than twenty years since
you moved to Queensland and we’ve never spent a Mother’s Day together since. That’s largely my fault. You’ve tried to make an effort to come and see us every year at Christmas, but I’m sorry, Mum, I haven’t made the effort back. Amity is asleep at the moment. It’s
10pm, and the nights are getting colder. I just went in to tuck an extra blanket around her and I found her lying there with her arm around that pink bunny you bought her for Christmas. There’s a saying that always makes
me cry when I think of you and Amity. ‘One day, someone is going to hug you so tight that all of your broken pieces fit back together’. I’m sorry, Mum, that I broke you
I had no idea when I was trying to fall pregnant that becoming a mother is one of the hardest things many women will ever do. I couldn’t comprehend how much courage is required to get up night after night to feed a new-born, or how, when you’re caring for a child, your own needs get completely ignored. I wasn’t prepared for how often they get sick, or how often they cry, or how much attention they need every day. Nor could I have predicted that there would be moments, when I hadn’t slept properly for days, that the urge to run away from it all would seize me. And it was during some of my darkest
days that you came down to help me. I am so grateful for all those times you changed Amity, and fed her, and took her out for walks. Thank you, Mum, for giving me those moments to breathe when it felt like I was suffocating under
it all. The fact that Amity has grown into a happy, healthy three-year-old is something for which I have you, in no small part, to thank for. Time and time again, what has
surprised me the most is how much she reminds me of you. I can’t even count how many times she has said something to me in exactly your tone of voice, or given me your classic ‘trying-to-be-stern’ look, or put her arms around me with the same fierce and unguarded love that you do. The other day, Amity and I were
scrolling through photos on my phone, and we came across one of you. She touched the screen, looked at me and then said, “I want to see Gramma.” What could I say to her? I’m sorry little girl. I fought with your grandmother and, being the pig-headed idiot that I am, I haven’t spoken to her in over four
sometimes. I’m sorry I never tried as hard as you did. I’m sorry I wasted so many chances with you. If you’ll give me one more, Amity and I would love to come and see you on this Mother’s Day. Please forgive me. There’s a little girl who wants to hug
you. And a bigger girl who needs to. Love, Your daughter n
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www.livingnow.com.au
Suvi Mahonen is a journalist whose work has appeared on many platforms including in The Best Australian Stories, The Australian and The
Huffington Post. She runs an eco-friendly art shop offering a great range of gifts, clothes and stationery online.: redbubble. com/people/suvimahonen
MAY 2017 9
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