How My Mother Raised Me Despite Not Having a Mother Herself.

The impact of my mother’s relationship with her mother on our relationship

The author being held by her mother right after birth.

At seven years old, my grandmother told me my mother was poor. I knew she shouldn’t have said that to me, and I looked at her to see if she had an explanation, but she didn’t. I spent that night in her guest room. I began to question why everyone else had more money in the family and if it was terrible that my mom was poor. Is it her fault? I wondered as I lay on the thick, pink, and white striped comforter, looking around the decorated room. My grandmother’s house was huge; there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, both with showers, and another room in the two-car garage big enough to be a studio apartment.

The following day, my mother picked me up. She came in the door with a huge smile and her arms wide open as she waited for me to fall in them. I quickly ran to her, happy to feel her hug me. As we walked down the light grey cement driveway to the car, I couldn’t help but think about what my grandmother said. I realized I didn’t care about how much money my mom didn’t or did have. I sat in the back of my mother’s car and watched as the cars passed us on the street. I felt my mouth and throat get dry. My hands began to sweat as I felt like two walls were caving in on me. I only had two options, be a liar or hurt my mother’s feelings.

I looked up at the black-outlined rearview mirror. I watched my mother sing her heart out as the music played in the car. We made eye contact in the mirror, and I quickly looked away. “What’s wrong?” she asked me. “Nana said you’re poor,” I replied. I watched as her eyes became watery and her lips trembled while her voice cracked as angry words parted from her mouth. I wondered if I had done something wrong by telling her what my grandmother said. I told myself to be quieter. I never spent the night after that. Little did I know I would witness myself lose a relationship with my grandmother and my mom lose a relationship with her mother.

I was thirteen when we began visiting more frequently. I was not too fond of Sundays. I woke up, showered, dressed, and got in the car. I sat in the back seat and put my purple headphones in as my mother drove down the highway. “You’re going to lose your…