I was searching through my journals to find the exact date that I met my mother again in Washington. To my surprise, it was exactly 24 years ago today as I write this post—July 5th, 2001. Crazy timing and alignment. How apropos.

July 5th, 2001

That morning, after showering, I found a silver dolphin necklace and a pair of earrings my sister had gifted me. Smiling, I put them on and headed to her room to plan our day. We were going to explore Seattle before meeting our mom for dinner at her house later that day.

The Moment Everything Changed

“Mom got off work early, she’s already at the house,” my sister said.

The blood drained from my body. My stomach clenched. My limbs froze.

All my life, I was told horrible things about her—about what she’d done to me. I had every reason to be angry, yet I held hope in my heart that she was nothing like the monster they painted. I didn’t want to ask questions in fear of confirming those stories… or being crushed by them.

“I’m starting to get very nervous for you. But this is the time to meet her because you need to know the truth,” my sister said, turning onto her street.

I saw a white construction truck parked outside the house. My knuckles were white from clutching my bag. My heart pounded like a drum.

“It’s going to be okay, Beth.”

We parked. I sat in silence, collecting myself before stepping out.

The First Embrace

I opened the door and she peeked around the corner: “Hi!”

We hugged, tears streaming down both our faces. We sat on the couch, the three of us, and I took her in. Same height, similar build. She looked strong—muscular from working in construction. And she looked familiar, like someone I had always known.

As we spent more time together that evening, my nerves began to ease. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: happiness.

I gave her a scrapbook I made of my life. As we flipped through it, she cried. I saw how beautiful she was. Not just in appearance—but in presence.

Finally, the Truth

After dinner, she asked if I wanted to stay the night at her home. I packed an overnight bag, and we made the two-hour drive to her house in the woods.

On the way, I was finally able to ask the question I’ve been longing to ask:

“What happened to me when I was little? I was told that I was sexually abused by your boyfriend and that you didn’t love me.”

With tears in her eyes, I told her everything I had been told over the years. Every accusation. Every painful story. Every reason I thought she abandoned me.

Through her own tears, she adamantly denied all of it. She replied:

“If I had a chance to do it all over again, Bethany, I wouldn’t have believed your dad. I would’ve taken you with me.”

She told me everything—the drugs, the physical fights, the infidelity, the violent custody exchanges. She told both sides of the story: the good, the bad, the ugly. What she regretted. What she wished she could do over. She didn’t understand why my father had said those things about her and was devastated to hear that I grew up believing them.

She was honest. Raw. Broken. And I believed her.

I Just Wanted Her Love

I didn’t need perfection. I didn’t need her to undo the past. I just needed to be seen. Loved. Wanted. I didn’t care about the history—I just wanted my mom.

We talked and cried for hours that night. And for the first time in my life, I felt the beginning of something real between us.

A Memory Etched in Light

The next morning, I came down the stairs and saw her sitting at the head of the table. The sun beamed through the window, her hair messy and pulled up. She wore denim overalls. She looked radiant.

That moment is etched into my memory.

It was the start of a complicated but meaningful relationship. One with ups and downs. Times I hated her. Times I loved her. Times I yearned for a bond we’d never fully have. But it was ours.

The Journey Toward Forgiveness

Now, 20 years later, I’ve arrived at a place of forgiveness. I’ve found my north star and I’m following it—leaving behind the destructive cycles, the unworthiness, the people-pleasing, and the lack of boundaries that once ruled my life.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. If you found any resonance or healing in these words, please consider sharing it with someone who may be on their own journey of pain, hope, and reconciliation. Consider subscribing to be the first to view future posts or follow me on social media.

For the next chapter in the story, we’ll dive into my father. Buckle-up Buttercup!

Much love,

Beth