Chapter 17 - Elsa’s Mother
The inheritance case forced me to talk about Cecilia differently.
For three years I had given Elsa the polished version.
Mom loved you.
Mom was kind.
Mom loved gardens.
Mom sang badly.
All true.
Not enough.
At eight, Elsa asked:
“Did Mom fight with Aunt Marcelline?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Sometimes after you were born.”
“Why?”
I told her age-appropriately.
Cecilia thought Marcelline bought too many gifts.
Marcelline thought Cecilia was controlling.
They fought over holidays.
Then made up.
Elsa asked:
“Was Mom mean ever?”
Yes.
Hard question.
“She could be impatient.”
“With you?”
“Definitely.”
“What did she say?”
I smiled.
“Once she told me I could intimidate a board of directors but couldn’t load a dishwasher correctly.”
“True?”
“Yes.”
Elsa laughed.
Her mother became a person.
Not saint.
That mattered.
Because Marcelline’s entire grief structure depended on Cecilia being irreplaceable perfection.
Mine partly did too.
Cecilia had flaws.
She still deserved to be loved.
That freed Elsa from needing to embody her perfectly.
One day Elsa said:
“I don’t like violin.”
Cecilia had loved violin.
Old me might have insisted she continue because:
Mom wanted you to learn.
Instead:
“Then stop after semester.”
She did.
No ghost was disappointed.
May you like
Probably.
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