A Mother Apart

I am a mother living apart from my child. My son is in his twenty fourth year - not so unusual then. But I have lived apart from my son for ten years.

How does that happen? What takes place that is so traumatic as to lead to a mother giving up her son?

Not so much a trauma, at least not of the earth shattering, instantaneous kind. More the sort that creeps up, inveigles - layer upon layer of life, weighing me down, rubbing me out.

I was twenty when I fell pregnant. What an odd expression, as if a careless trip could find me with child. Well I not so much fell as jumped. My future husband thought it a good idea, for reasons best left unsaid. And I said "Why not?", which was my answer to most questions, and which has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.

Half way through my degree, I saw nothing strange in pausing to start a family. I had nothing to lose - no job, no house, no money - a perfect time to become a mother. And it was perfect. As our son grew up, my husband took on the role of carer, combining it with his painting. I went out to work and became the breadwinner. Unusual then but it worked for us.

I realise now that I’ve been overcompensating for my absence since  Max was young. My career as a fashion buyer took me away from home for six months of the year and the remainder was spent working long hours. I tried to cram all my mothering into the free time I had and made up the deficit with long-distance phone calls and presents from abroad.

By the time Max was 14, I was divorced, unemployed, recovering from depression, up to my eyes in debt and wondering if life was worth continuing. If you’re a parent I’m sure you can imagine the guilt. I’d put Max through so much and felt I’d let him down badly as a mother.

Living in Edinburgh with no prospect of work (believe me I tried), I took a job in London. How could I take Max with me? What did I have to offer? I had nowhere to live, the prospect of a new job working long hours. In Edinburgh he had a family home, an ever present father, friends, a familiar school. The choice seemed obvious.

So I travelled home every weekend, determined that my son wouldn’t accuse me of not being there. And I tortured myself with guilt while he grew up and we grew apart.

By the time we moved to Petworth I had a home to offer Max, but it wasn’t his home, wasn’t his family. It was too late. We continued our long distance relationship, intense and co-dependent, each of us trying to compensate for the distance between us. Oh I know we love each other and that we have an indelible connection - we both know that. 

But now we have no contact - his choice, and one that I respect. What else can I do? I practice “letting go with love” day in day out, with not a day going by that I don’t wish it had been different.

I fully accept that I made my choices. I understand that every action has a consequence, no more, no less. I try to manage the crippling guilt that has dogged me for the last decade, and I live as a mother apart from her child.

I am honest about my situation. I tell those who ask (however mortifying) that we are not in touch. What else can I do? This is who I am. However successful I may have been in my career, whatever adventures I have enjoyed, I did not put my son first. I wasn’t capable of it - whatever the reasons.

And so I try to be a decent person now, knowing that I cannot change the past, I can only learn from it. Once a mother, always a mother.