As a child, I assumed all mothers were only affectionate on their terms, when others could see it, when they needed the affection. I figured that was just the way it went, as the child, I needed to be available to cuddle and things when my mother was having one of her bad days and the rest of the time, well, I should be able to stand on my own two feet. I recently had a conversation with a friend and the topic of differing childhoods came up. The friend admitted that it was hard, given the relationship she had with her parents, grandparents, etc for her to wrap her head around the idea that parents would treat their children in such a way. On my end, I couldn't ever fathom that parents, other adults, could be good and caring to their children. I admitted that there was a feeling of something akin to jealousy that would bubble up when I saw (see) other people and their good family relationships. But it's not quite jealousy, because I don't hate those people for having
It started with the bang of a door. Someone came in or left through the heavy front doors of the church as people do, as people have done before. The bang was loud in a quiet moment of the church service, a startling sound that everyone in the room heard and then immediately forgot. It was a non-event. Irrelevant. The doors in the front are heavy and close quickly unless whomever is walking through them takes care to slow them down, it's one of those things you forget about until after it's slammed shut behind you. But this slam was different some how. Almost instantly, I could hear Mother's voice, the tone that hovered somewhere between mocking and sneering as she called my name, demanded of whoever was in the narthex to tell her where I was. In my mind's eye, I could see the crazed anger as she stormed into the sanctuary, eyes searching for, and eventually finding, me. The panic set in, the increased blood pressure and the rapid heart rate, the paralyzed-rabbit