Chapter 19 - MY OWN MOTHERHOOD
I had spent so much time proving I was different from Diane that I almost created another problem.
Evan became thin during a growth spurt.
I started watching every plate.
“You barely ate.”
“I’m full.”
“You need protein.”
His face closed.
One evening he pushed his chair back.
“Stop talking like her.”
The words hit me harder than deserved.
Also correctly enough.
I stopped.
Later, I apologized.
“I’m worried about your health.”
“Then ask the doctor.”
We did.
The pediatrician found normal growth.
No issue.
My anxiety had been driving the concern.
Trauma can disguise itself as vigilance.
I returned to therapy.
Parenting after abuse did not mean reversing every rule.
It meant checking whether fear was writing them.
Evan learned to cook.
At fourteen he made terrible chicken thighs.
We laughed.
He looked at the burned pan.
“Should we invite Grandma?”
Dark humor.
I said:
“Too soon.”
“Twenty years from now?”
“Maybe still too soon.”
We ordered pizza.
The Thanksgiving scene slowly became something we could name without reliving physically.
I told Evan the full truth about my retaliation when he was old enough.
“I remember you hitting her.”
“I know.”
“I thought it was cool when I was little.”
“That worries me.”
“I don’t now.”
“Good.”
“Do you regret it?”
“The first instinct to get you out? No. The slap and forcing food? Yes.”
“Would you do it again?”
“I hope I’d take you, call police, document, and leave.”
He nodded.
“That sounds less cinematic.”
“Real safety usually is.”
May you like
He became a documentary-film student later.
He used that line against me constantly.
