“Whatever,” she says. “The book isn’t the point. The point is, I was reading his acknowledgments, the part where he thanked you for being his editor and friend. And I was filled with this profound sense of pride that you are my daughter.”
I know that my mother basks in any form of public attention. She loves telling her friends that she raised a successful editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, and pointing out her daughter’s name in the front of a book is just icing on the cake. Still, I am surprised by her words. This is not the language my mother normally speaks in.
“I am so proud of you, Claudia,” she continues. “Not just for how smart you are and for all you’ve accomplished. But because you’re the kind of person that people want to thank in the front of a book. People love you and respect you. You are special that way,” she says quietly. She looks down at her feet and slides her orange driving moccasins together. Her hands are folded in her lap. She looks contrite and shy and sincere.
“You are the very best thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she finishes.
I don’t want to feel moved or grateful, but I am. So much so that I am on the verge of tears again . I wonder how one woman can create such a tsunami of emotion in me, and in such a short span of time? I tell myself to get a grip. I remind myself that my mother is, in a sense, taking credit for the way I’ve turned out, when she deserves relatively little credit. She used to tell me to get my nose out of my book and go get some fresh air. She was devastated when I was sixteen and applied to work at the library instead of life-guarding at the country club. I am who I am in spite of my mother. But I can’t help it, I know I will not forget what she has just told me. I know I will replay her words a hundred times or more. I know that, as much as I don’t want to admit it, my mother is important to me.
“Why are you telling me this?” I say.
“Because of the recent choices you’ve made in your life.”
“What about them?” I ask. I know she is talking about Ben and babies, but I am not sure how it all ties in with her out-of-the-blue compliment.
She looks contemplative, as if carefully considering her wording. “I’m not the best mother in the world I never have been,” she says slowly. “But always remember, Claudia, you are not me. You are a lot of things to a lot of people. But you are absolutely nothing like me.”
* * *
twelve
I never did think I was anything like my mother, nor did I peg her as the main reason I didn’t want children. So, despite her intent, my mother’s speech did nothing to reverse my position on motherhood.
But there was still something about my mother’s words that felt like a revelation to me. Perhaps because it was the first time my mother had ever apologized to me for anything. Perhaps because everyone wants her mother to be proud and, to some extent, we can’t help seeing ourselves as our mother sees us. Perhaps because it was a reminder of all that I still have in my life. I have my career, of course. But more important, I have rich relationships that I cherish. I am a good sister, daughter, and friend. My life has meaning and will continue to have meaning without Ben.