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A Simple Family Story
My beloved mother’s words.
Sometimes they are unintentional lashes, peeling away layers of confidence like a veritable whip does skin and tissue.
Because I know how much the wrong words from a beloved family member can sting, I endeavor to modulate the use of my own when my mother upsets me. Mom does not exhibit the same kind of restraint when expressing her opinion, a benefit that accompanies an individual crossing the threshold into advanced age.
As familiarity has lulled her into a sense of comfort, my mom often does not think when she speaks around me, the words often spilling from her mouth before her brain has time to consider how those words are used. Her propensity to cause hurt has increased as the years come and go, causing discomfort for her three children. My sisters and I talk about this tendency sometimes.
I know she does not mean to hurt me, for I am her beloved son, the man she always refers to as dear.
“My dear,” says my mother, a recent widow. “What would I ever do if you were not here?”
Mom probably would have a more difficult time living on her own. It is why I, a gainfully employed and emotionally healthy adult male, choose to live with her. I am not like other American sons of mothers, for I am the son of Nigerian immigrants. Culture and duty require that…
