Five minutes before the start of my daughter’s funeral I was tottering around in too-big heels and a too-small dress greeting the kind faces as they found their seats.
Folks threatened to overflow out of the 400 seat funeral home. People were standing up at the back. One gentleman stood upright, arms crossed, staring straight ahead —the fire captain who pulled my daughter’s broken body from the flaming wreck of her car. He’d seen the worst of the worst and retired days later. No whispers made it out of the pews and up toward the cathedral ceiling. I made sure my smile filled up the room. An armour against the hundreds of eyes trying to read my state of mind.
‘That was far too much smiling for a mother at her kid’s funeral’ I thought later.
Five minutes until go-time and my husband brings me a wisp of a thing to meet. Blond and tiny, just like our Chloe, I am introduced to Kyla. I may have heard her name in passing, but at that moment I could not fathom why she was taking up space in front of me. Kyla was asking to say a few words about Chloe when the time came.
Of course she could. I sure as hell wasn’t going to.
Looking back, I could tell this tiny 19-year-old was utterly nervous. I had no room to care. My entire being said my role trumped hers. A blond baby chick, pushing herself far beyond her comfort zone to speak in front of hundreds, was honorable, but I was greeting guests, hosting, and wrestling with the fact that I myself couldn’t get up there.
Now, I’m not afraid of public speaking.
I’ve played a circus ringmaster for God’s sake. Whip included.
The reason I couldn’t go in front of this crowd was because I could not think one honest and nice thing to say about my daughter.
The cello began its gentle lament and we all sat enveloped in the hard pews.
The funeral was MC’d by a friend, but my husband Jason was the showstopper. You’ve never seen a funeral like this. I have no idea how he professionally facilitated the crowd at his own daughters funeral. He had people program his number into their phones if they ever needed someone to talk to.
Grampa read a poem. Chloe’s teacher pulled from a deep well of caring.
It was comforting to learn this tiny wisp named Kyla was Chloe’s best friend. They shared many adventures. I was glad to hear she had someone besides her sister to confide in. I had never met her and barely heard her name in passing.
Kyla was such a good friend in fact that she was the only friend with the clarity of mind NOT to send us grieving parents photos (for the obligatory slideshow) that included giant bongs and giant bottles of rose. May we all have friends whose first instinct is to protect our reputation after death.
As it happens, it was not just facing the crowd that had scared young Kyla.
It was facing me.
The Mother.
The woman she had heard insane stories about.
She might as well have just walked straight up and surrendered to Medusa.
Chloe’s stories about me included this shiny beast:
I used her father’s drinking as a reason to send her into foster care, where the first family was nice, but the second one repeatedly raped her.
I haven’t been brave enough to ask what other stories Chloe told. That one stung enough.
I find that a mother’s hurt gets shoved in a box these days.
Social media gives the impression that we aren’t allowed to be hurt by our children’s responses to us because those responses are our fault. The children needed to be held more gently. We parents must atone for our sins.
Even though I gave all my gentle.
It wasn’t a lot.
I admit.
I made her touch the raw chicken.
Rake leaves with bugs hiding inside.
Walk in the drizzle.
But I gave predictability. I gave expert lice-combing. It was not enough to keep her alive. That wasn’t solely up to me.
Am I hurt that my care was not received? That I was painted a Gorgon monster?
I’m hurt that I didn’t get anything back, yes.
Period.
The explanations — she had deep trauma, the step-mom never gets the good stuff, you’re too German — don’t take that away.
What does soothe is time. It’s in the past. Every day I wake up and can create my days, my life, with whatever story suits me. It’s the next tremendous responsibility.
There is no correct way to love.
We see what works, what doesn’t, and hopefully adapt.
And then pray that all that adapting lines up with how your child develops.
Well — we didn’t line up Chloe and me. Hence the mythic hate.
It’s been a few years since the funeral, and we’ve kept in touch with the gentle girl who was our daughter’s best friend.
She is attentive to the suffering of others. Hardworking. Earnest. Charming.
She’s been through the wringer. Every social worker’s filing cabinet is filled with what this gal has endured.
These are the honest and nice things I can finally say about Chloe too.
Thank you for the rawness of your emotions. The anger. This is what needs to see the light more often. Relationships are not clean, nor are they tidy. They hide behind the performative. I would say you are brave, but that is too trite and far too easily dismissed. You are perfectly human, and you have pulled the curtains back on that. That is what makes the best and most powerful prose… and the best healing, however that is defined
Thank you for writing about the grief that comes with a complicated, painful relationship.