I had been trying to reach my married son for several days, but he hadn’t been taking my calls, nor answering my increasingly worried texts.
At first, I didn’t read much into it. My son and his wife lived ten minutes away, and they stopped by once a week, usually on Fridays, to say hello. So I figured I’d see him soon. But that Friday he sent a text saying he would be unable to make it, and he didn’t even call to say gut Shabbos.
Something was definitely wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. Was he okay? Was my daughter-in-law feeling well? Were they having issues with their marriage? I didn’t know what to think.
“Zalmy, I’ve been trying to reach you for a week. Please call me back. Please talk to me. I want to know what’s happening,” I begged my son in a voicemail. “Is everything okay? Should I come over?”
I held my breath, waiting for the response. And then it came. “Don’t come over. I’ll call you.”
I waited, tensely, for my phone to ring. It was my son Zalmy, but his voice sounded cold.
“Mommy?”
“Zalmy! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said tersely, and I sensed something in his voice that made me shiver. “I, uh, Shiffy and I decided that we need a little break right now.”
“A break? From what?”
“I think it’s healthier for our marriage if we keep a little distance for a while,” he finally stammered. “You know, Shiffy was very hurt by the comment you made the other day.”
I was stunned. True, perhaps I had been out of line, but I apologized immediately. We had what I thought was a nice relationship, if a bit distant. Were my son and daughter-in-law really going to cut me off for one silly comment?
Apparently, they were. Their silent treatment was excruciating and brutal. As the days went by, I found myself drowning in a maelstrom of emotion.
I had no idea that my son and daughter-in-law simply withdrawing from me could be so painful that it would make me incapable of coherent thought, of doing anything other than pace in the silence of my room. I felt weak at the knees, unable to concentrate on anything. “Hashem, please take my pain away,” I whispered, in the privacy of my room.
I was exhausted, yet sleep eluded me.
Sometime during the night, as I tossed and turned, my pillow wet with tears, a realization hit me with the force of a soccer ball to the face.
My poor mother.
This is what she must be going through. And not just for a few days, but for years.
In order to live an emotionally healthy life, I had no choice but to cut ties with her years ago. I couldn’t afford to dwell on how she might feel to be on the receiving end of such treatment. But now I knew.
I thought I had put the demons of my childhood behind me. But my son’s behavior triggered me, and as I cooked and cleaned and prepared supper, all the pain and isolation I’d felt as a child, growing up in a troubled home, came back to torment me with a vengeance.
I found myself catapulted back to the time of my life when I yearned desperately for someone to nurture me, someone to tell me I deserved to be loved. I was starving for love, warmth and the comfort of a mother’s touch.
After a couple of tormented days and nights, I knew what I had to do. I gathered my courage and picked up the phone. I dialed a number I had not called in years.
The phone rang several times. As I was about to give up, my mother answered. She sounded frail and hesitant, unlike the shrill tone that had haunted me.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Mommy? It’s me, Gitty. I hope it’s not too early.”
“Gitty?” her voice betrayed her surprise. “It must be late at night for you. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, uh, everything’s fine.”
I paused, as the deep sadness I usually manage to keep at bay washed over me.
There was silence on the other end.
“Mommy, are you there?”
“What made you reach out to me, Gitty?” my mother finally asked. “It’s been a while.”
“I’m feeling the pain you have been going through all these years, now. My son and his wife have shut me out, and I thought I would die of pain. I’m sorry you had to go through this.”
I expected my mother to lash out at me, to tell me it served me right, that it was exactly what I deserved. I had heard her say words like that so many times.
To my incredible surprise, she was quiet. Then she said, “Thank you.”
Those words were so comforting, so validating, that I finally felt at peace.
I put down the phone, glad to have lessened my mother’s pain a bit. Perhaps, by showing some understanding of what she had gone through, I had even brought her some measure of comfort. I know that at that moment, some of my pain was lessened, too.
* * *
My younger brother Moishy and I grew up in a dysfunctional home. My parents lacked the physical and emotional capacity to care for us.
My mother had grown up in a chaotic home, surrounded by fighting and turmoil. Her marriage was also turbulent, as my father was ill and rarely able to hold down a job. My mother worked a series of exhausting jobs while my father spent most of his days at home, supposedly watching after us. In reality, he spent most of his day absorbed in his own world, ignoring and neglecting his children.
When my mother would finally arrive home after a very long day, she was drained and usually in a sour mood. She would yell at me that the house was a mess, that there was no dinner, that the chores weren’t done. I would tense up as soon as I would hear her car, with its broken muffler, announcing her arrival from up the street.
Supper was a haphazard event, usually bread from the freezer, warmed up on the gas range, smeared with peanut butter, or a plate of cheerios, if we were lucky enough to find it in the cabinet. Though I wasn’t satiated, this hunger was nothing compared to the emotional hunger I was suffering.
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