Saturday was my mother’s birthday. I wrote this to her using Twitter last month and thought I’d share. Maybe she’ll see it. Maybe she won’t. Either way, I actually DO care.
I don't blame her. It wasn't her fault. It was normal for a little sister at 4 years old to be entrusted to a 7 year old big brother while outside playing in the 1980s. That was life. Mom couldn't be there 24 hours a day. She wasn't a helicopter mom, but she had no idea what was going on. If she blames herself, that's entirely on her. I don't blame her a bit. I don't know that I even blame my brother. He was only seven years old. He shouldn't have known the things he knew. I certainly don't blame me, I was only a four year old little girl. My mother also wasn't there when I was 11 and he was 14, when he propositioned me (while nude) to have sex with him because he was curious to know what it was like. She wasn't there. She doesn't know. I didn't tell her. That is in NO WAY her fault.
Maybe someday she'll figure that out. Maybe she won't. But that's her issue, certainly not mine, and I can't hold myself responsible for her actions or self-blame.
Happy birthday, Mom.
P.S. She always hated being called "Mother."
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