Last Friday was my mother’s birthday. After I called her in the morning to wish her a happy one, she followed up with an email inviting me over for dinner and cake that evening.
I walked into my roommate’s bedroom, sat down next to her, and sobbed. I hadn’t been to my parents’ house, my childhood home, in over a year and a half. And they only live a fifteen minute drive away.
The reasons for this are complex, but suffice it to say, there had been tensions growing for some time. For most of my life, I had been accustomed to living with tension – but when my girlfriend died by suicide in June 2022, it felt like everything surfaced at once.
My parents did not deal well with the suicide. My mother said many of the wrong things, and my father said next to nothing. Both responses left me feeling heartbroken and isolated.
That Christmas, it was expected that I would attend the usual family gathering. When I was living in England and during Covid, there were reasons for not being at my parents’ house for the holidays. But otherwise, I had never missed it.
As the festivities neared, my anxiety was at its peak. I wrote my father a heartfelt email addressing some of my fears and insecurities, wanting reassurance that I would be welcomed in their home, even if I wasn’t at my best, even if I couldn’t put on a happy face. The response I received was unsatisfactory to me, so I didn’t visit them for Christmas that year.
Once you make a move like that, it’s hard to go back. I started to think of my parents not as they were, but what they were beginning to represent for me: judgement, repressive behaviour, lack of understanding, and generational differences. I avoided them at all costs, while still arranging for my daughter (three years old at the time) to visit with them on a semi-regular basis. Even while my relationship with them was fraught, I didn’t want to deny my daughter quality time with her grandparents.
After several months of quietly respecting my need for distance, my mother showed up at my home asking if we could have a chat. We did, and it was helpful. She agreed to attend a therapy session with me. It was hard (especially for her, as she had never been to therapy before), but it was also helpful. It felt like a step in the right direction.
My father did not reach out. Again, the following year, I didn’t go home for Christmas. Estrangement had become the new routine. It was my way of practicing boundaries, which had always been challenging for me. At this point in my life, I wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than open, meaningful, communicative relationships, even if it meant cutting out one of the people who raised me.
Besides, I felt that the ball was in his court: I had already written that email; what else could I do? Still reeling from the effects of my girlfriend’s suicide, I was feeling vulnerable and raw. I only had so much capacity for human interaction, especially when the stakes felt so high.
Maybe I’ll never have one of those break-through conversations with my parents that I’ve found myself devouring with envy in emotionally-driven films and series about families reconciling. But maybe that isn’t the only way to move forward.
Eventually I started feeling stronger. It helped that I had given myself significant time and space to process my grief, my traumas, and the heavy burdens I realized I had been carrying for too long.
As I sobbed in front of my roommate, expanding on the situation and why it was affecting me so deeply, she said one of the most helpful things anyone can say:
“Would you like me to come with you?”
It must have been clear to my roommate that I didn’t want to avoid my childhood home indefinitely. I wanted to be there to celebrate my mother’s birthday and to see my aging father, but I was positively terrified – of what, I didn’t know entirely; perhaps simply of breaking down upon arrival, unable to control my feelings, therefore further burdening the people I desperately no longer wanted to burden with this wild and beautiful life I’ve lived.
I responded to my mother’s email, asking if I could bring my roommate, along with my daughter. She responded enthusiastically, and we clarified our arrival time. I spent the rest of the day fretting about it, but I was resolved to go, so I did – with the support that I needed.
The next day, I asked my roommate what she thought of my family.
“Jes-si-ca,” she said to me, drawing out each syllable of my name, making her point clear: “Your family loves you. Your father loves you. They want you there. They were so happy you came.”
I thought I had cried enough. Apparently not.
I can’t say I regret the time I spent in avoidance. It was what I needed for my growth, to build my confidence back, to find comfort in the adult person I’ve become, even if it’s not what my parents expected or wanted for me. But this estrangement wasn’t meant to last forever. In some cases, it is necessary for people to cut ties permanently with family members whose behaviour is unredeemable. This was not my situation.
We are all deeply flawed people who come with our own baggage, hang ups, and limits. During this particularly difficult period in my life, my parents were not able to love me and support me in all the ways I wanted to be loved and supported. But they continued to love me and support me in ways that were manageable for them: caring for my daughter on some weekends and holidays; checking in to make sure I was financially secure; putting aside books they thought I would like; and acknowledging special days with cards, gift cards, and thoughtful gifts.
Maybe I’ll never have one of those break-through conversations with my parents that I’ve found myself devouring with envy in emotionally-driven films and series about families reconciling. But maybe that isn’t the only way to move forward.
Last Friday was my mother’s birthday. And it felt like a sort of rebirth for me, as well. Many happy returns: a return to the deepest parts of myself, shelved for too long, revealed in family photographs on the mantelpiece, my daughter playing with toys saved and savoured from my childhood, three generations of immigrants and their children sharing food and wine around the dining room table, a classic film on the television for the restless young people and nostalgic grown ups, an awkward yet tender goodbye at the front door. It’s a start, isn’t it.
Some things are meant to be left behind. And some things – like birthday cake and parents who love you – are meant to be cherished wholeheartedly until they are no longer there.
Jessica Ruano 