93 Narrative: “A Mother’s Love”
Jennifer Smith
Instructor Alexis Kopp
English 1013.01
15 December 2021
A Mother’s Love
“You’re worthless, Jennifer, always have been,” she slurred. After days of drinking, she finally came home to tell me just how much I meant to her. She ranted for a while until eventually losing interest; the fragrance of alcohol lingered as she left the room. I sat quietly on my bed, attempting to hold back a raging river of tears. Alone with my thoughts, I pondered every question I possibly could: Why is she doing this to our family? Is this my fault? How did things go so wrong? Is this how a mother is supposed to love her child? That one sleepless night turned into many, and this became a common, defeating recurrence. At twelve years old, I was abandoned by the person who was supposed to love me the most: my mother.
Growing up, I had an average, simple family. I had an older sister who I got along with, an intelligent father who spent most days working, and a decent mother who took care of me when my father was gone. My mother Susan was a realtor and always had been throughout my life. I never saw any issues with the job until it started getting slow during the winter of 2016. It had been months, and my mother still hadn’t sold any houses. This lack of job success took a toll on her, and she began to act differently. I didn’t understand it then, but she fell into a despondent state of depression. As one does when depressed, she turned to drinking.
It started as a few fruity beverages from time to time but later developed into something more. She began to find every possible excuse to have a drink. My heart shattered into a million delicate fragments as I watched my once sober mother turn into an addict. She made my childhood nothing but a collage of painful memories. From showing up to my elementary school graduation blackout drunk to forgetting to pick me up from school while she was at the bar, Susan had become an embarrassment. I would dread coming home in fear of seeing her, and the mother I once knew slowly became a stranger. When I couldn’t fathom my situation getting any worse, it did.
Just like any other addict, the liquor was no longer enough to satisfy my mother’s unquenchable desire to feel numb. She craved something stronger, something better. I no longer smelled the scent of alcohol on her breath. Instead, I was trapped with the aroma of cannabis that burned inside of my nostrils. Susan had decided to try marijuana, something that quickly became a daily habit. This hobby of hers became instantly traumatic for me. We would go out to dinner together, and she would fall asleep at the table—because she was high. She would fall asleep behind the steering wheel while driving—because she was high. She would leave the house for days at a time— because she was high. From that point on, everything she did, she did it because she was high.
As a result of all of the drugs, my mother’s disposition completely changed. She began to lie about occurrences that never happened and to blame others for her mishaps. When I was in seventh grade, Susan told the police my father abused her in an attempt to get out of a DWI. On numerous other occasions, she tried relentlessly to get him fired and to ruin his life over false accusations. At that age, I felt utterly powerless. I wanted to help my father, but the issue was too grand for me. All I could do was sit and watch as their relationship disintegrated.
As my family was falling apart, Susan found other people to provide her with company; she began having affairs with random men. One summer night, she came home drunk and brought a strange man into our home. My heart sunk deep into my stomach as I frantically scrambled for words to say.
“Who is this?” I finally blurted out.
“He’s just a friend of mine.” she said as she struggled to stay on her feet.
“Why is he in my house? I don’t want him to be here. He needs to leave.” I felt uncomfortable with the situation and tried to stop it as fast as I could.
“How dare you make our guest feel unwelcome! I cannot believe you right now! You should be so ashamed of yourself. You’re crazy! You need help!” she shouted. I swallowed the gigantic lump in my throat. She pushed to manipulate me but I refused to budge.
“No, you’re crazy! I want you both out of here now!” My words broke as I shouted. At that moment in time, I felt stripped of my youth. I was only thirteen years old but had become the adult in that situation.
“You’re worthless Jennifer, always have been,” she slurred. I sat quietly on my bed, attempting to hold back the raging river of tears.
After many years of traumatizing experiences such as this one, we finally packed our bags and left my mother. My father filed for divorce, and we no longer had to live with her anymore. A massive weight was lifted from my shoulders and I felt I could finally breathe again. For a few months after the finalization of the divorce, I had supervised visitations with her every other week. However, those became terminated because she rarely showed up, and when she did, she was intoxicated. Finally, on February 3rd of 2019, I saw my mother for the very last time.
Although my wounds from the past have healed, I still have scars from the emotional abuse I endured. Every unfulfilled promise, every false “I love you,” and every abhorrent word has stuck with me all of these years. What was an enjoyable childhood for many was an inescapable nightmare for me. To this day, I still recall the questions I asked myself that summer night. Why is she doing this to our family? Is this my fault? How did things go so wrong? Is this how a mother is supposed to love her child? I now know the answers to these questions, with the exception of one. Although I never discovered what a mother’s love was like, I learned what it wasn’t.
(Note: the names of the characters in this narrative have been changed to protect identities.)