I loved my mother. Until I had my son, there was no one I loved more. I wanted to marry her when I was a child, and strived to be like her as I grew. Little did I know, there was an unhealthy dynamic at play that I was oblivious to.

An early memory is me sitting by her side as my father raged in the next room. To comfort and protect her. In what was clearly a role reversal, it was I who wanted to be there for her. I was maybe five or six at that time.

Post-separation, my mother moved us somewhere quite remote. By design, we had no phone in the house. Her unspoken motto was “us against the world”. What she wanted was for us to be close. That ensured at least my loyalty.

I don’t know if it was anger or depression or anger-related depression from my father’s affair (it was not the first time a man had let her down), but in thinking back, she shut down emotionally in ways that were not quantifiable to me as a child.

Being a divorcée at that time with three young children could not have been easy. And except for some basic facts, she never spoke to us about her childhood during the war, let alone how it affected her. One sibling and I speculated the worst.

That same sibling recently remarked how devoid of life she was. What I remember is how dark her room felt to me after we moved. I know I always felt bad for her. It was as if a part of her was missing or inaccessible. At least to me.

I recall times feeling so alone. When no one was there for me. I was desperate for love and attention but would not find the solace I required there. It was a dark time for me too, but I don’t blame her. I was too young to understand.

Yet, I felt guilty. What right did I have to be happy while she was not? I tried to make up for whatever was absent from her life, so I took on her burdens whenever and however I could. With my life effectively on hold.

I had no idea just how enmeshed my relationship with her was until fairly recently. Prioritizing my marriage felt like a betrayal to her and my siblings. The birth of my son only added to my angst. To some degree I still feel her pull.

I always thought it was my father who affected me the most with his volatile temper. Sad to say, but my mother’s neglect had much further-reaching consequences. I am only now putting everything into perspective.

She did not have an easy death. She was so angry at the end. Unlike my father, who was reconciled with dying, my mother was bitter and untrusting. It breaks my heart to think of the psychological pain she must have been in.

Years later, I still have a hard time reflecting on it.