The copy on my bookshelf is actually… stolen. Desperate for help as a college student, I saw a pastor for therapy. He wasn’t a good fit for a nice Jewish gal like me, but offered to let me borrow the book from the church’s library. I never saw him again, and he never saw the book again. Though I like to think he knows it’s in good hands.
Turns out that the book was my therapy. Dozens of stories from girls just like me, who’d lost their mothers and were trying to recover. Those women brought me such comfort and confirmed that my life would go on, eventually happily.
Passing the bookstore last night, I tried to imagine the person who sold it. Was it a symbol that they’d moved on? What did it mean that I still need mine on my shelf, like a dear friend I’d never abandon?
This Mother’s Day is different from the last 10 years of motherless Mother’s Day. This year I have mothers: my stepmom, Mark’s mom, and Mark’s stepmother. I’ll celebrate tomorrow with my stepmom and the rest of the family, and it’ll be a wonderful day.
But on this rainy day, I’m missing talking to my own mother… because sometimes that’s just how it is.