Dear Mum: The First Letter

A mother, a daughter, a letter and a death.

I read somewhere that the first sentence is the most important when it comes to engaging the reader, so how’s this one?

I found a letter from my estranged mum and a few weeks later she died.

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Dear Mum,

It’s me, Jane. Firstborn, asthmatic, enormous forehead, reads too much.

It’s been a while. About twenty years, actually. Although, you’ve been dead for eight of those so I’m not sure it counts. You’re probably surprised to hear from me. That is, if you’re hearing from me at all. I’m writing because I have a bone to pick with you. This would be the perfect time to make a joke about you being cremated, but I’m far too sensible for that.

We went through a lot, you and me. Remember when you married someone with seven kids and three foster kids? And overnight my brother and I gained ten siblings? And then it all went to hell and at your time of death only two out of the twelve of us were still in contact with you and your husband? You died before we got to talk about that. Before we got to talk about a lot of things.

But maybe we should start from the beginning. Not the beginning-beginning (where you were labouring in the hospital and Dad was at home watching the cricket and eating a Vegemite sandwich), but the first letter. Your letter.

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It was Winter 2016 and I went to visit Dad and my step-mum. I thought it was going to be one of those catch-ups where I’d skull my hot tea, admire how the beans were growing, and leave before any emotional scarring. My step-mum would give me a squeeze, enquire about my physical, spiritual and mental wellbeing, ask me how work was going, and how my friends were going, and how my neighbours were going, and how my neighbours’ friends were going, and Dad would ask me if my husband watched the footy last night.

I knew I’d been tricked when I pulled up outside their house and Dad immediately steered me into the garage.

“I thought we could go through this together,” Dad said. He stood in front of a battered metal filing cabinet the same yellowy-beige as his fraying wool jumper.

“What’s in there?” I asked with an exaggerated sigh. It was imperative he knew how badly I didn’t want to be doing this.

“No idea!” Dad cheerily replied.

I laughed, rolled my eyes and hoped there would at least be a juicy familial secret revealed to make this worth my while. I came from generations of conservative Baptists, so there was bound to be scandal in there somewhere.

Starting from the top, Dad pulled out wads of paper that had been crushed into the filing cabinet drawers. I felt my body relax as we played “keep or chuck” and sorted through bills, contracts, hymn sheet music, bible studies and church bulletins, all from the late 80s and early 90s.

There was a pause in activity and Dad passed me an envelope.

This is the part where things get foggy. I think Dad recognised the handwriting on the front as belonging to you, his ex-wife who left him nineteen years ago. I think I recognised the handwriting on the front as belonging to you, my mother, who I’d been estranged from for twelve years. It was addressed to me: “To my beautiful daughter Jane.” I think I opened it. Or maybe I waited until I got into the car. I think we kept going through the filing cabinet until the drawers were empty. I think I was fine, nothing was amiss, it was just a letter from the woman I once called “mum,” but once a mother, not always a mother. I think I held it together until I got home.

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To my dear Jane,

This is just a short note to wish you a happy second birthday. You mean a lot to me and I love you very much. Words cannot express the joy and love you bring to this family. The Lord was so good to us in giving us such a beautiful daughter. Even though you cannot understand this I pray that one day you will realise how much I love you and always will. There is nothing in this world which can replace you.

Love, Mummy

P.S. I hope and pray that whatever happens between us in later years and whatever I do and say it is because I love you.

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I stumbled through the front door and started dry-retching. What was this letter on about? You didn’t love me, you hated me. Couldn’t stand the sight of me. Remember how you folded your arms and watched with disgust as I had a panic attack? How you withdrew affection? Gave me the silent treatment? Remember how the last thing you said to me before I left was about making sure you got your money’s worth of child support payments?

This letter didn’t fit the tidy narrative I had in my head of a villainous mother who despised me. It didn’t fit the narrative I had of myself; the unwanted and unloved daughter.

I slipped the letter inside a book I was reading. I wanted to show the letter that I didn’t care. The dry-retching? Coincidental. Any hysterical crying was unrelated. I was totally cool about this new information and my brain chemistry was absolutely not changing and I was not questioning everything I knew. This was all very unremarkable.

Furthermore, I definitely did not engage in any daydreaming where I would casually send you an email and tell you I found the letter. And then you’d casually reply and ask to meet up. And then we’d go for a casual coffee and you’d casually apologise and then I’d casually apologise and then we’d casually hug and there’d be, I don’t know, a rainbow or a choir or a parade or something (casual).

But it turns out that God or The Universe or Whatever You Believe In had no time for the thoughts I wasn’t thinking, and a few weeks later I got a call: you were dead.

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I’ve been squashing the memory of you for too long. One of my dear friends lives opposite the house you died in. My 6-year-old keeps asking questions about you. You appear in my dreams, faceless and voiceless, nearly every night. You’re pushing your way to the forefront and I can’t avoid you anymore. So, I guess you’ll be hearing from me again soon.

With deep relief that you can’t reply,

Jane

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