On Christmas Day, my mother made a hurtful remark about my eight-month-old daughter in front of our entire family
sixteen, she told me my homecoming dress made my arms look larger than they were.
When I earned a partial scholarship to college, she asked why I hadn’t been accepted somewhere more prestigious.
And when I introduced Evan, she studied him for several uncomfortable seconds before announcing,
“Well, at least he seems dependable.”
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The way she said it made him sound like a used appliance she’d decided might still work.
For years, I told myself those comments were simply part of her personality.
That she didn’t mean to be hurtful.
That she loved me even if she struggled to express it.
And when I became pregnant, I allowed myself to believe something I should have stopped hoping for long ago.
Maybe becoming a grandmother would change her.
Maybe she’d look at my daughter and feel nothing but love.
Maybe having Lily in our lives would finally softenthe critical
