It was for their mother and their grandmother. I'd never really been told about my dad's first wife, their mother. I gleaned a few things from comments they made: that she and dad were introduced through high school friends; that she was a very modern lady; that she passed away from illness.
When I was younger, I had a bit of a crisis. If my mother wasn't their mother, that made her the wicked step mother (for, let's be honest, how many kids haven't at least heard of that particular fairy tale trope?). My mother didn't really fit the mold: she wasn't a cackling witch, she wasn't vain, and she couldn't be cruel to my sisters even if she tried (at least part of that is because my mom is far from imposing).
When I was helping my older sister clean some stuff out a year or so ago, she told me that in a fit of postpartum depression, my mom told my dad to burn all pictures of his first wife. My sister hadn't found out until almost twenty years later. She had saved one picture.
I never really pry into my dad's past. He tells me what he does, but I just try not to bring up his first wife. Part of me fears that, even over twenty years after her death, he might still mourn her, might love me and my mom a little less.
She died at 32, in 1986. I was born in 1989. He remarried not even three years later.
I wonder how my sisters felt about that. They never do call my mom "mom." She's always "J" or "your mom."
Today we went to the graveyard after walking the dogs at the beach. My oldest sister had gone inside the flower show and my older sister was trying to balance the bag of McDonald's and keep Paddington, her Newfie, from barking at people.
"How did your mom pass away?" I asked.
"She committed suicide."
"Oh."
"Yeah. It was a chemical imbalance in the brain. She had medication, but she wasn't taking it--SHH!" She turned back to shush Paddington.
So that was the illness my dad was talking about.
I think I won't pry into my family's past anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment