I grew up thinking my mother was cold because she never said I love you. I’m in my 60s now and I finally understand she said it every single day. She said it in packed lunches and ironed uniforms and the way she sat outside the school fifteen minutes early so I’d never have to look for her.
For a long time, I carried a quiet conclusion about my childhood. Nothing dramatic. No single memory I could point to and say, that’s where something broke. It was softer than that. More like a lingering absence. A sense that something important had simply never been said. My mother rarely told me she loved me. … Read more