Glimpses by Anne E. Beall

A few months ago, I looked up and realized you were walking along the sidewalk in front of me. You walked as if you weren’t sure of yourself—not convinced you had a solid place on this earth. Your backpack had telltale signs of adolescence—small stuffed animals on key rings hung off the back, along with ribbons and stickers. Your clothes were a bit too tight, but you would say it’s the fashion. You were on the cusp of womanhood, and I longed to tell you it would all be fine. Growing up can be difficult, but you would manage this. I almost called your name, but it wasn’t you. Just someone who transported me to a memory of you a long time ago.

I see you everywhere, even though we are estranged. 

Perhaps I see you so often because I’m always looking for you, hoping that one day you will walk into my life as easily as you walked out of it.

Estranged contains the word, ‘strange,’ which describes how I feel. Like I’ve had an illness and cannot recover—never really be myself again. 

Why did this happen? Scanning my memories, I hope to find the answer. Maybe understanding it will lessen the aching pain. Perhaps the invisible thread will appear that ties all the past moments together. 

My earliest memories of you are entwined with those of your father. I met him about a year after your mother passed away. He was raising you and your brother on his own. He vowed never to get married, and I felt similarly. Wrecked by difficult marriages, we found solace in one another. Each week we ran with our running group. We traded jokes, ate dinners with our running friends, and bonded over our dislike of certain foods. We never meant for our relationship to be serious. 

You were only seven when I met you. With your gap-toothed grin, you exuded optimism, much like your dad. That first Christmas, the running group threw a party where we all bought presents. Each gift was anonymous. And yet, when you opened mine, you looked right at me and smiled. You knew who it was from. I nodded. Our initial connection was forged through the secret we shared, which served as the first link in the bond between us, growing and extending like delicate tendrils.

For Valentine’s Day, your father invited me over for dinner with you and he made spaghetti with jar sauce. The food was cold, your brother farted at the table, and you made goofy noises with your mouth; it felt more familial and less romantic than I’d envisioned. When I told him of my disappointment, he said it was fine—all of us together. 

“Yes, but not on Valentine’s Day,” I countered. 

Perhaps I should have seen that my relationship with him entailed a tightly woven and interdependent relationship among all of us. But I was just looking for a sappy Valentine’s Day card and a box of chocolates at the time.

Subsequent Valentine’s Days were much more romantic.  

Your father and I fell in love over long discussions, running marathons, and the fun we had with you and your brother before we married. The trip to England where you spent hours at the Tower of London, and we ate dinners at English pubs and laughed at your dad’s jokes. The Sunday nights when we went to the local bar where we ate messy chicken wings, and my bedtime stories in which you were a princess and your brother a prince. You were the heroine who battled wicked characters, and your brother explored space and conquered aliens. Those memories are the sweetest moments of my life. 

I attended your soccer games, lived out of a bureau in your dad’s bedroom and tried to reconcile sleeping every night in your home while I had an address elsewhere. Finally, I told your father we should get married. He disagreed, and we broke up right before Christmas. I was shocked but hopeful he might change his mind.

You and your brother came to my home that Christmas and I gave you both books and toys. Your brother left after an hour, but you stayed, and we made a sock monkey. We baked cookies and watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas. When your father came to pick you up, you lectured him all the way home, “Dad, you made a big mistake breaking up with her.” 

Eventually, he agreed with you.

When your dad and I became engaged, you were eight, and said, “Can I call you Mom now? Before the wedding?” Years later, I reminded you of this conversation and how much you wanted a mommy, but you declared, “No, I just wanted you.”

I felt the same. I longed to be a mother—to be your mother. I wanted a family. Your father didn’t want any more kids, so we agreed I’d be an equal parent. If I had children, I would have been overjoyed if they were just like you. I was so captivated by both you and your brother that it felt like there were cords tying us together. I overflowed with pride as I watched you score goals on the soccer field. There for the good and bad, I cleaned up messes when you were sick with the flu. I played the role of the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, relishing every moment.

However, the “stepmother” label haunted me. When I proudly introduced you and your brother as my own, one of my female friends retorted, “They’re not your children. They’re your stepchildren.” I suspected others held a similar opinion, even if they didn’t say it aloud. Refusing to adopt the “step” terminology, I aimed to minimize any separation between us. Despite my efforts, I still felt inferior and sometimes untethered to you, especially when your brother said I wasn’t your “real mom.”

Regardless, I held a steadfast belief I was destined to be your mother, and this conviction ran deep within me. I shared your dreams and encouraged you, saying you could achieve anything you set your mind to. Your joys and sorrows became mine, and I consoled you when kids teased you at school or when you didn’t get a solo part in the school dance recital. 

When you were nine, you took a vacation with your dad and brother. Arriving home tired, you placed a lucky penny in a small glass bottle on a shelf in our coat closet as you hung your jacket. Your father didn’t see the souvenir and knocked it to the ground. Glass shattered. 

“My lucky penny,” you said between sobs. 

Your father yelled at you for putting it there.

“It’s alright,” I said as I pulled you into me and hugged you tightly. “A lucky penny is so much luckier when it’s released from its bottle.” You held on to me and wiped your tears with your little hands. You lay your treasure on a shelf near your bed, and I kissed your forehead.

When you were ten, I bought you an inexpensive guitar for beginners. And then I arranged for lessons. Every day, you practiced. You wrote your own songs and performed a song in the school play. You dedicated it to me. I felt so loved.

Perhaps I remember your early years the most because the later ones have recollections that sting. As I became more successful in my career, your father and I drifted apart. I traveled often for work and called him at night after long days. But he was often too busy to talk. One night, he hung up on me because he was watching a movie. I called less and less. In retrospect, I probably should not have devoted myself so completely to my career when I felt disheartened with him. The constant travel that came with it took a toll on all of us, but I failed to recognize it.

But at least I had you and your brother. I recall sitting on my bed with you and watching Little Women on a Sunday morning when I had to fly out that afternoon for a work trip. Your brother and I made brownies later that day. I hated to leave both of you, not to be there on Sunday evening for dinner. I missed you so much. 

As you began high school, the gap between your father and me widened. Our bond that once held us close was now weaker, and we no longer shared the same interests. He was eager to spend his weekends out on the lake boating, but I disliked the blistering sun and the constant feeling of seasickness. Meanwhile, you and your brother enjoyed your time on the water. I occasionally felt like an outsider when you came home talking about your fun days together.

During this period, a rift emerged between you and me. It was small at first—just a crack—but it expanded. You argued with me over clothing, curfew times, and almost everything, it seemed. You no longer liked our family dinners. We fought and sometimes screamed at one another in frustration. When I took you and your brother whale watching, you told me it “wasn’t your thing,” as we saw whales surface from the depths of the ocean and slap their tails against the water. I took photos of you eating ice cream later that day. You looked bored.

I should have realized it was common for adolescents to reject their parents as a natural part of growing up and becoming independent. But I was plagued with insecurity regarding my position and unsure of your love for me as you matured. Despite hearing from some parents about similar struggles, I found it challenging to discern what was normal, and assumed your rejection of me was because I was your stepmother. Feelings of failure overwhelmed me.

When it came time to choose your college, we sat at our big dining room table. 

“I don’t need your opinion,” you sneered.

“Then we will discuss college when you can be respectful,” I replied. 

I left the table, but your father stayed, and the two of you selected your college without me. He and I argued later because I’d been excluded from such a major decision. My strong bond with you was now fragile and on the verge of snapping. I was desperate to reestablish our relationship but did not know how. That night, I cried myself to sleep.

As time passed, your father and I could not talk without having a boiling disagreement. We pricked each other with our words and the wounds festered. On the way to a formal event where I was being honored, we got into an argument, and he dropped me off at the door, saying he would not come in. I stood at the entrance in my long, formal black gown as he drove away. I never felt the same about him.

During your college years, you drifted into another world, and we could not see one another across the immense space between us. I expressed my concern when you became involved with a woman who mistreated you. I wanted to protect you from heartache and foster a conviction that your romantic partners should be respectful and kind. As a parent, I should have realized that seeing your children experience hurt is part of the journey. However, it took me some time to understand this.

“You’re homophobic,” you yelled. “You psychologically abused me, and you need to admit that.” 

“What do you mean I psychologically abused you?! How?”

Your words deeply pained me. You could not explain, and when I pushed you to tell me how I hurt you, there was just silence. I could not fathom why you were so angry at me and how you came to view me as a villain. 

“Can you talk to her?” I asked your father, hoping he would intercede. He did not.

My relationship ended with him, and it disintegrated with you as you graduated from college. Your father told everyone he was brokenhearted, that we were happily married, and that it was my decision to leave. But he left our relationship many years before our divorce. You could not hear my viewpoint when I tried to talk to you. You were in your twenties and said you needed space. 

And that’s what we have—vast, unlimited space.

I’ve learned that you have a master’s degree in data science and have lived in the Netherlands. You are the independent, smart woman I knew you would become. I am so proud of you.

Despite our estrangement, I see you everywhere and miss you every day. 

For many years, I held onto the hope you would find your way back to me. At first, I believed you would eventually forgive me for leaving your father. However, as time passed, I realized the relationships within our family were deeply interconnected. When I look back at my memories, it’s clear that when one relationship suffered, the others did as well. Every connection became more fragile. As one strand of the family web disintegrated, the remaining strands eventually decayed. When the divorce occurred, that destroyed all the relationships, and the connections between us were completely severed, leaving us with no ties to bind us together.

There is no way home now.

I am sorry for that.

Anne E. Beall is an award-winning author whose books have been featured in People Magazine, Chicago Tribune, Toronto Sun, Hers Magazine, Ms. Career Girl, and she’s been interviewed by NBC, NPR, and WGN. She received her PhD in social psychology from Yale University and is the founder of the strategic market-research firm, Beall Research.