Not in a million years.
a love letter to my mother
She was always laughing back then. At the dog. At her own jokes. At the radio.
She moved through the kitchen in her white Keds (no socks), cracking jokes as she opened drawers, rinsed things, handed me paper towels without looking. Her laugh filled the room—full-bodied, constant— like it belonged there more than the cabinets or the clock on the wall or the refrigerator.
Somewhere in the middle of all that noise and movement, she'd pick up an apple.
She would stand over the kitchen sink—or sometimes the garbage can, lid off—with a small paring knife, the apple turning in her hand, and the skin would come off in one perfect spiral, thin as a ribbon, red giving way to white. She didn’t use a peeler. She never even looked down. Just kept talking, maybe laughing, adjusting her grip now and then like it was nothing. The blade kissed her thumb, again and again, barely a space between them. She never slipped.
I didn’t move when she peeled. I’d just sit there, legs sticking to the ugly orange vinyl seat, swinging under the table, trying to figure out how she did it. Watching. The kitchen was small, but when she peeled an apple, everything else got quiet for me. Like the whole room knew to hold its breath.
It wasn’t just that she could do it. It was how easy she made it look. I couldn’t imagine learning something like that—not in a million years.
I thought it was incredible.
I thought she was incredible.
Her hands did other things. Drove stick shift. Pulled weeds. Folded t-shirts. Braided my hair too tight. Clapped sharp and loud when she laughed. Bruised bananas without realizing it. They were mom hands, but not in the tired, overstretched way people sometimes mean. They were busy, but in a joyful way.
My mind forgets to text people back, to shut cabinet doors, entire years.
But somehow, it keeps the shape of an apple in her hand.
The peel coming off in one perfect ribbon.
Until one day, it didn’t.
I don’t know exactly when I fully forgave my mother. It came in waves for some time, and it required that I make changes within myself. In many ways, not unlike the changes she had to make. Mine were just younger. Harder to point fingers at.
But there was a moment. A moment where I suddenly realized I fully forgave her. Forgave her in a way I have never forgiven another adult in my lifetime. A moment where I realized the pain, the bitterness, the anger could not be found inside me, even when I searched for it.
For a long time, I didn’t think I was capable of that. Not in a million years.
But she kept showing up.
I love you. I’m proud of you.
I know not everyone gets this. I know how rare it is—
to forgive your mother not in spite of who she is, but because of who she’s become.
To start over. And to find something stronger than what you had before.
To lay rest the anger before the person.
She became what I believed she was.
A little magic, peeling through the world in one long, loving ribbon.
