When my mother died, I did not want to go to her funeral. My father would be there, and my brother; I wasn’t talking to either. At the last minute I went, only because I was afraid I would regret not going after it was too late.

My mother wasn’t angry like yours, but her kindness was overshadowed by her disingenuous way of being that always protected and defended my father’s abusive and destructive behavior. I couldn’t like her. I couldn’t love her. And I’ve never missed her.