My mother and I have never gotten along. Even in the beginning, before we had reached that awkward stage when we had finally figured each other out, our connection was still forced. My mother and I just weren’t meant for each other, almost like there was some mistake that brought us together. Maybe she wasn’t my real mother. Maybe there had been some mix up at the hospital and my real mother was at home, taking care of some other child and succeeding at it, because a good mother always has a bond with her children.

There was no mix up, and having a bond with someone, even a maternal bond, does not guarantee a lasting relationship with that person.

I actually used to think my mom was cool. My mother would do everything that nobody else’s mom would do with their daughters. She would drink with me, offer me cigarettes, and talk about her sex life. It was somewhat disgusting, but I was intrigued—for a while. As I aged, I realized how irresponsible she was. She was never around when I needed her. She would leave for days at a time, and never even bothered to call when I didn’t come home for a week. This realization of her immaturity made me start to pull away from her, and when my mother started to see that we were no longer “partners in crime,” her actions started to turn violent.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday. I was washing dishes in the sink, staring out the kitchen window at the acre of land that my mother’s house sat on, while the smell of the sun-heated soap bubbles wafted upwards as they popped around my fingers. My mother asked me a question, but I can’t remember what it was. I didn’t listen, because it was insignificant. Everything at that point was insignificant. So, I just ignored her. Suddenly, she started hitting me. I never hit her back, but just stared in bewilderment, wondering when we had made it to this point.

I left my mother’s house when I was sixteen. I went to live on my own, wanting to see if I could make it on what small amount of information I had been given about making it in the real world. It was hard at first, but eventually it got better. I learned new ways to take care of myself day to day; I was scared by how similar my actions were to my mother’s, but I accepted them because it was all that she had given me. I loved her for that at least, realizing that there wasn’t much else to build that emotion on. Maybe she had tried her best, and all I could do was thank her for that. Soon I stopped blaming her. After that, I forgave her, but we never rekindled our relationship because I just didn’t want to make the effort.

I have seen my mother a few times since then. We’ve had a few awkward conversations on the telephone. When my daughter was born, I watched how my mother was towards her. I saw her tenderness and affection, wondering when she stopped treating me that way. Sometimes I feel ashamed of what our relationship has become, pondering new ideas to make it better, but then I settle on the fact that it never will be.

I realized that some people make each other happiest when they aren’t in each other’s lives, and that is the best lesson my mother has ever taught me.