The Day My Mother Sat at My Table

“Table for Two?”

“Table for two?” the hostess repeated. I was 9 years old, standing in a restaurant with my dad when those words changed my world.

Menus in hand, she led us to a table, placed the menus down—and then she sat across from me.

I looked at her. Then at my dad.

My heart thudded, because I knew deep down who she was.

It was my mother.

A Brief Reunion and a Piece of Gum

She said “Hi Bethany, I am your mother.”

Confused, I asked myself:
Did she work here? Has she been here this whole time?

I excused myself and ran to the truck under the pretense of grabbing something—I needed to give her something. I came back with a handful of gum packs and offered her a piece.

That moment lives in me forever.

After spending some time talking to her, she asked if I could come spend the night with her. I was ecstatic—an entire night with my mom.

I don’t remember much else from that day, other than meeting my one-year-old half-brother and baby sister. She dropped me off at school the next morning. Later that day, during school assembly I saw my father walking through the gym looking for me. When I ran up to him, he hugged me in relief and told me he was worried she had taken me.

It would be over a year before I saw her again.

Hope Blossoms, Then Wilts

My grandparents told me she wanted to come over and talk. They assumed she was going to offer some kind of custody arrangement—and they were already prepared to say no.

She arrived with my sister and after a few pleasantries, she asked if I could I spend the summers with her. She told me about the room she prepared for me. A real bed. A dresser.

I was full of hope.

My grandparents told her that they couldn’t make that decision, it would be up to my father. I begged them to give her a chance.

We went to lunch and talked. For a moment, I felt seen. I felt wanted.

But when I returned home, my aunt and uncle were there discussing whether or not I should go. They all decided it wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know if they told her over the phone or what had happened, but I didn’t see nor hear from her again for 2 years.

I was heartbroken. She wanted me—and I wanted her.

Two Years Later: A Desperate Escape Plan

I was 12 now. Living in a trailer on my grandparents’ property. My dad had remarried and divorced over the span of 2 years. And during those 2 years, we moved 4 times and 4 schools. His new wife cheated, and he spiraled into meth addiction.

Sometimes we had power and water. Sometimes we didn’t. My clothes didn’t fit. We rarely had food.

I was living in survival mode and had missed several months of school.

My dad needed a way to fund his drug addiction and took my mother to court for child support. While she was in town, she showed up to take me to dinner, I saw my chance. This was my escape plan. I would beg her to take me away—and never look back.

But the second she stepped in the door, my dad mocked her weight. Called her a whore and all kinds of unimaginable things. She snapped. They screamed at each other. And I knew that he wouldn’t let me go. He would use me as a pawn to hurt her, to hurt me. And just as I suspected, he told her she wasn’t allowed to take me anywhere ever again and would sue her for everything she had.

She left in tears.

The Final Goodbye (For a While)

Twenty minutes later, she came back. Quiet. Sad. She handed me a few wrapped gifts.

We said goodbye.

I didn’t see her again until I was 18 years old.

Growing Up Motherless

I finally began to understand why she left. The abuse. The chaos. The manipulation. I was living through it at that very moment. And I couldn’t help but feel the crushing weight of being left behind, left with this monster of a man.

I hated him. I felt abandoned by her. And in the mess of it all, I began planning my own escape. In the next blog post, I’m going to explain how the mother wound expands beyond the one who gave birth to me.

Much Love,

Beth