This Mother’s Day will be 27 Mother’s Days without my mum. It’s a widely celebrated day of love and happiness but the occasion stirs up mixed emotions for Motherless daughters. Over the years, my mother’s death has hit me hard in varying ways and I think about her everyday. Things frequently pop up that remind me of her and the strong emotional bond we shared.
The following is a true tale about an incident that recently happened to me involving my mother. Surprising to involve her because she’s been dead since 1996. Time has marched on, we’re a new millennium (!), and the nuclear family that was has gone its separate ways. My father, brother and I live in different cities and for me, countries. Mum was the glue that kept our family together; without her, we are now seldom in touch. This is the indelible truth that can happen to a family when its pivotal figure dies. And on days like Mother’s Day - when I think of the last Mother’s Day I had with her, which was also spent with my father and brother, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness and nostalgia for the times that have passed along with her.
Sometimes though, I still feel her presence because it was not that long ago that Mum and I ‘reconnected’. One could speculate that she was sending me a sign from the beyond to remind me of an item that had belonged to her, bringing it to my attention because she wanted me to have it, and she wanted to remind my Dad that I should have it.
Discovering the letter
Usually when I return to Melbourne (Australia) from Los Angeles, I’ll make a stop at the Taxibox storage facility to inspect the belongings I’ve been storing there for the past 10 years. Last September, while combing through the storage unit, I dug into an old copper pot that contained letters my mum had sent me when I was a teenager at boarding school. I didn’t have time to re-read them then, so I put them in my handbag for safekeeping to take back to America with me.
A few weeks later, when I was home in Los Angeles, I retrieved one of the letters. Mum had written it in 1988 when I was only 13. In the letter, Mum told me she had bought a dining table with her own money. This was significant because my mother had never worked full time, so saving money required a lot of time and effort. Mum described the table’s uniqueness. She explained that a local steak restaurant in Alice Springs was closing down and had several tables to sell. These tables had been made out of the jarrah wood from the sleepers of The Ghan, a train that runs an epic 2,797 kilometres (1,846 miles) from Adelaide to Darwin in Australia. She had loved the table’s connection to Alice Springs, a small town in Central Australia where my parents had been temporarily based for my father’s work. Mum said she’d paid $3,000 for it but suspected it could be worth as much as $20,000, since the restaurant might have underpriced its value to make a quick sale. The fact she’d included this detail made me smile. Mum was thrifty and I could feel her delight spring from the page in the happy belief that she’d scored herself a deal.
I instantly knew the table Mum described. When my parents moved from Alice Springs to Melbourne in 1990, I left boarding school in Adelaide to join them and start Year 11 as a ‘day girl’. We bought an old Edwardian family home and the table took pride of place in our dining room. It was the room’s centrepiece.
More than just a table - it was a haven
Mum was a talented cook and my parents would often entertain. Mum would make her signature dinner party dishes: salmon roulade for main course and store-bought brandy snaps filled with brandy whipped cream for dessert. She would prepare the meals in the kitchen and ferry them down the hallway to excitable oohs and aahs from the guests as she placed food on the table. There were many gatherings around the table in the six years we had Mum with us in that home. I celebrated my 18th birthday around the table – school friends sang happy birthday as I blew out 18 candles on the cake Mum had made. There were also quieter, relaxed times that I remember well; Mum and I chatting at the table, with her German Shepherd dog sitting nearby soaking up the warmth from the fireplace, flames and firewood cracking and popping. Occasionally I did my homework there, including a year 12 art project about the musical, The Phantom of the Opera, which I received full marks. When Mum passed away, the table became a makeshift florist display, as we placed the sympathy flowers people had sent on it.
So while this table has strong connections to my mum and our family, I wonder if it will remain that way?
You see, my mother left “all remaining possessions” in her will to my dad. As he has since remarried, the table, being “joint-property”, will belong to my dad’s second wife when he passes. Dad says the table will eventually come back to us (my brother, me or my brother’s children) when his wife dies, but Dad’s wife is closer in age to me, than she is to him. I see time bringing its distance, and quite frankly given recent developments, the table will go to anyone other than me.
After re-reading the letter Mum wrote to 13-year-old me, I asked my father if I could have the table left to me in his will. Dad’s response was he and his wife had already discussed and made his will and the table would be going to her. As far as they are both concerned the case is closed and the decision is just; his wife will get the table and I should be accepting of it.
I don’t begrudge my dad for having a relationship after my mother, but I do begrudge him for his attitude to this latest turn of events. In my opinion, the table belonged to my mother. It is a family heirloom, and should not be conveniently listed among the “joint-property” that my father and his wife have bought together during their marriage. I believe my mum would have wanted me to have the table once my father passed and it is reasonable for me to be asking for it. Could that be why my mother’s letter showed up after 35 years? Could it be that in the ethereal world she knew what was in place and was nudging me towards a different outcome?
As a result of this incident, my father and I haven’t had any meaningful contact in more than six months. Very sad considering months are like dog years when one is 80. Obviously there are strong emotions on both sides of this issue and I’ve had to face the reality that in this scenario, Dad will have his way. Everyone grieves differently and I accept that my response to Mum’s decades-long absence will be different from others in my family. Unfortunately, our divergent approaches to grieving and ways in which we honour my mother, has frequently put us at odds and led to periods of estrangement, and that brings a whole other layer of grief to deal with.
In closing, let me return to the supernatural. Over the years my mother has appeared in my dreams. A few years ago, I dreamt the two of us were talking. I was conveying my frustration over an episode of my father’s treatment of me. In my dream, I shared with Mum that Dad had changed dramatically after meeting his wife and this greatly impacted the way he was with me. Only months before Dad met his new partner he had spent a fortune renovating our family home after he and I made a pact to take on the project. Let’s bring the house to its full glory, just as Mum would have wanted was his position. We were doing it as a tribute to her, both united in the project’s undertaking and committed to living in the beautifully renovated house together for years to come. But with his new relationship redirecting his priorities, I was out of the family home within six months and Dad sold the house shortly after.
In dreamform Mum showed little reaction to my comments. (On the contrary, alive Mum would have had an opinion!) Instead, in my dream Mum was apathetic of the situation. She may have even shrugged her shoulders in resignation. This passive response infuriated me, but underneath it my subconscious was sensing a message. There is nothing we can do. We can’t control the situation. Acceptance. There was her answer. Mum had made peace with how my Dad was moving on and urged me to find peace with it too.
Postscript – Mum said (while she was alive) that if she could come back after death and visit us she would. There have been a few times where I’ve particularly felt her show up and the latest letter incident felt like more than just a rediscovery of the letter. This is the type of thing (in my opinion) she (like me) would get riled up about. She took pride in her belongings and put her family first. Sure, she didn’t leave the table to me in her will, but after my father, she would have wanted me or my brother to have it. She was a feisty person and if nothing else - in exhausting my efforts to have it belong to me - I’ve honoured Mum’s spirit.
