Being the young woman that I was, assertive and very outspoken, I decided that enough was enough. We had a good life with our dad and did not need occasional visits to appease someone else desire to feel like a good mom. I had made up my mind that, if people were not going to stay married than the next best thing would be for one parent to be completely out of the picture. No part-time visits, no shared custody, no attempts to make things “better” between real family and whatever WE were. 

A clean cut.  

I was naive, maybe. 

Stupid, yes. At least in retrospect.

Being a mother now, having five children, three of which can readily tell me how much they love me.  Who can become angry with me when I cut a sandwich the wrong way. Who can whisper in the middle of the night and draw me from the deepest of slumbers … I can’t imagine how cutting my words were. 

“I don’t want to see you anymore.”

I can’t fathom the tears and deep hurt that accompanied the weight of hanging up the phone that last time. Wondering if it was just the fit of an eight-year-old attempting to seem mature beyond her years. Considering the release a blessing in disguise because the visits were tense and awkward. Thinking these were the last words that you would ever hear from your child. 

“I don’t want to see you anymore.”

No light hearted goodbye, no I love you. 

Cutting conclusions, piercing the heart.  

More than 24 years ago I told my mother I didn’t want to see her anymore, that she didn’t have to pretend to want to see us. Just like that, she was gone.

At the time, I thought I was being mature, that I was solving a problem. I thought that I could end the arguing. I was relieving someone of the obligation to play family. I was protecting my brother and I from parents who didn’t love each other and could hardly talk to one another anymore. 

I thought I was being a grown up. 

I never considered the weight of my words and how they would have been received. I gave it barely a second thought. 

I didn’t cry because I would no longer see my mother. I wasn’t sorry that I had been so rash. I thought I had done a good thing and our life went on as it normally did. 

Just my father, my brother and I. 

I think the first time I thought about my birth mother was when I was elbow deep in baby poop. When my own breastmilk stained every shirt I owned. When I was looking down the barrel of overwhelm, of being in over my head. 

The first time I thought about my mother was when I realized I was walking in her footsteps. 

Sure, I was more successful, better educated, and I assumed that I had a stronger marriage than her and my father (I mean, my new husband and I had already been together for 10 years … nearly three times longer than my parents). But I was newly married, already had a baby, and was pregnant AGAIN … my children would be less than 14 months apart and I had no clue what I was doing. 

There would be nights when I would wonder what it was that pushed my mother over the edge, that sent her packing. What was the thing, the straw that broke the camels back and when would that happen to me? 

Would I run away from my children because it got too hard, because the stress of motherhood was too much?

When would I break?

Those thoughts haunted me as we welcomed our second son, as we treaded blindly through the unchartered territory of building a family. I would often find myself arguing with my husband over the stress of raising children. I would beg him for affirmation on the journey, question whether I was doing it right? Wondering if I was a good enough mother. 

When he asked me to be a stay at home mom, I nearly lost it. 

I cried spontaneously for days at his request. I couldn’t be a stay at home mom. I had no IDEA what motherhood was supposed to be. I had no example to follow. 

I would remind my husband time and time again that I didn’t grow up with a mother. I had no idea what it meant to have maternal instinct and I was still waiting for the trigger to hit when I would get in the car and never look back. 

The fear of breaking under the weight of motherhood slowly faded into a lost memory the more children we welcomed into our family. I started to find a groove in the journey of raising boys and, while I still lost my temper all too often, I wasn’t worried that I would want out. 

I was a boy mom. I was winning over this subconscious insecurity and the thoughts of my mother were blurring once again on the horizon of doubt and fear. 

And then we got pregnant again, with our fifth child! This time, though, we would be welcoming a young lady into our lives. 

Things were about to change. 

And, while this new revelation did not immediately spark thoughts of my mother, it was the precipice that would set in motion all the hormones that would change everything. 

Literally, change everything. 

I don’t know what prompted his text or if my father had read the entire thread of this viral Facebook trend, but within an hour of me admitting that I knew very little about my mother’s side of the family, my dad sent me a quick text. 

“Your mother had four sisters … apparently they were left on the steps of a church … in Newfoundland … in the 70s”

That was all the information I needed. I figured there HAD to be something in the paper about a group of sisters, abandoned at a young age in a small town. 

I have no idea what compelled me to dive into a witch hunt of sorts but I began googling the town, the story of orphans, her and her sisters names. 

I had no clue where this would lead or if it would materialize anything. I mean, I had searched my mother’s name periodically on Facebook and Google here and there with no luck before. But this time, this time I had a fraction more information and some MASSIVE divine intervention. 

Within an hour or two of searching I found an article writiten during the past year that gave me more than enough information to take next steps. 

I read the article top to bottom three or four times, taking in all the information about this woman who I barely knew. 

I cried ugly tears and searched for a way to contact the articles author. I also did a hail marry search for a phone number. 

PS >> if you are wondering, here is a link to the article. Seriously, even now, when I open that article, my heart skips a beat. That’s MY mom. A picture of MY mom. The woman I honestly never thought I would see again. 

It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. 

A phone number. 

An olive branch. 

A way of reaching out to the woman who, 24 years ago, I told I didn’t want to see again. 

She had no idea that I had this. I could just pretend like this little hunt never happened. I could take this tiny scrap of paper I jotted the number on and just “file” it with all the things I would never again touch. 

But something compelled me to continue. 

I had told NO ONE what I was doing, I had no guidance and no one to talk to. 

But I had a nudge to pick up the phone and dial the number. 

Man, when I say that it felt like an eternity before anyone answered, I MEAN it. With each hesitant yet bold number I pressed into my smart phone, with each pause between rings … it felt as though time was standing still. 

I literally held my breath wondering if anyone would answer. Wondering what I would say if someone DID answer. I hadn’t even thought far enough ahead to script and rehearse a greeting let alone flesh out what I thought this encounter would lead to. 

I was calling my mother, after 24 YEARS after all. 

The phone rang more than half a dozen times, each time my hope wained ever so slightly. The thought ran through my head that I could just hang up and pretend that this never happened. I could go back to being ignorant of this other life. 

And then it happened, a woman answered the phone and I lost my breath for a second. I could only muster her name. “Jacquie?” 

There is more to this story and I will continue to write and share but for today … we will leave it at hello.