Chapter 8 - The Winter Healing
December rolled in with heavy snowfalls that blanketed the Pacific Northwest in a serene, magical quiet.
Owen and I took a weekend trip to Portland to stay with Aunt Nancy in her sprawling, book-filled craftsman home near the foothills. It was an absolute revelation to see where my mother’s side of the family actually came from—warm, eccentric, deeply artistic people who laughed loudly, cooked incredible meals, and talked openly about their flaws without weaponizing them against each other.
One evening, sitting by a roaring stone fireplace with a mug of hot spiced cider in my hands, Nancy handed me a heavy, leather-bound photo album from the 1970s.
"Your mother wasn't always like this, Mna," Nancy said quietly, watching the flames dance in the hearth. "When we were growing up, our mother—your grandmother—was intensely critical, demanding perfection in everything we did. Barbara absorbed that poison and internalized it as the only way to survive. When you came along and showed independent spirit, she panicked because she didn't know how to mother a soul she couldn't completely rewrite."
I traced my fingers over the embossed leather cover. "Does that excuse her?"
"No," Nancy answered instantly, her voice firm and uncompromising. "An explanation is not an excuse. Understanding why someone is broken doesn't mean you have to let them continue breaking you. You made the right choice by walking away."
"Some days, it still feels heavy," I admitted, looking up at her. "The grief of mourning a mother who is still alive is a strange kind of grief."
"It’s the heaviest kind," Nancy agreed gently, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "Because you're grieving a ghost—the mother you deserved to have versus the mother you actually got. But look at what you’ve built in spite of her. Look at your husband, your career, your agency, your peace."
May you like
I turned my head toward the doorway. Through the archway, I could see Owen in the kitchen, laughing with Kyle—who had driven down to join us for the weekend—as they debated the best way to make hot chocolate.
The heavy, suffocating weight I had carried for twenty-eight years felt lighter, traded for a resilient, unbreakable strength.
