Rote Memory

I wrote out his birthdate on a document I was dating at work this morning. 4-29-84. I almost didn’t even realize the error. It was so instinctive when writing down 4 dash 2 9 for the dash 84 to flow from the pen. I haven’t even put those numbers to paper in 25 years or more. Why now?

It’s his 40^th birthday today, but he’s lived thousands of miles from my heart for longer than I care to think about. I cannot text him happy birthday wishes. There will be no motherly greetings posted to his social media accounts on this day.

Vacancy stills my heart, leaving only a lump in my throat.

I cannot change the past.

Step-parenting is like walking a tight-rope hovering 40 feet in the air with no net to bounce back from once a certain level has passed. No amount of I’m sorry’s or if only’s or explanations will redeem the innocence of the once treasured mother-(step)son relationship.

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When I was still married to his dad, after he’d been living on his own for only a few years, Steve told me that Chris was planning to come over that Sunday. My heart leapt with joy and excitement. This Sunday is Mother’s Day! I busily went about my usual Thursday, Friday, Saturday duties with such anticipation. He’s coming to see me for Mother’s Day, I thought.

I hoped.

Things will be better now, I assured myself. I glanced at the bulletin board above my desk and pulled the pin out of the last Mother’s Day card he’d given me. My hands caressed the embossed design, slowly reading the cover, trying to absorb the memories of years past. Opening the card, I read the rest of the card. His signature. My hand pressed against his writing, “Love, Chris” as if reaching for his hand.

Sunday finally arrived. The morning was a blur. Driving, singing at church, listening to the sermon, driving home. All I could think of was that he was coming that afternoon. He was coming to see me for Mother’s Day. I made a quick lunch – I think I ate something. I don’t really know. Clean up, load the dishwasher, all routine but still a blur.

I decided to busy my hands with a needlepoint, hoping the time would pass quickly. Every few minutes I’d look away from the shadowed horse in my hands to the hands on the clock. Hurry up two o’clock! And then I’d have to recount the squares to remember where the needle should pierce through next.

Finally, the front door creeks open, the screen door slamming behind him. He walked into the family room greeting his dad with a hug, a cordial “how are you” and “I’ve missed you so much.” Then my kids storm in and grab him around the legs and waste. He pats their backs, observing how they’d grown since he saw them last. He missed them, too.

I stood, taking him in as he greeted the others, knowing I’d be next.

But his glare aimed just passed my gaze. No hello’s, or how are you’s, would pass between us. Zero acknowledgement that I was in the same room with them – the whole two hours until I had to leave the house.

Every encounter with him since then would be the same. But he’s still my son who I’d raised since he was 11 years old. I still love him. I will always love him!