Chapter 23 - Beatrice and Me
My mother and I did not speak for nine months except through lawyers and mediation.
Then we met.
Neutral office.
She looked older.
Not dramatically.
Just less certain.
She said:
“You think I tried to erase Celia.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hate her.”
“I know.”
“She hated me.”
“Sometimes.”
Beatrice almost smiled.
Then:
“I was terrified of watching you become your father.”
“What?”
“When he died, I lost half my mind. You stopped eating. You stopped sleeping. You asked me every night when he was coming home even though I told you he wasn’t.”
I did not remember.
“You think I don’t remember because I removed things.”
Maybe.
She continued:
“I thought if I let Lowri live in photographs, she would become like you.”
“What was I like?”
“Waiting.”
That word.
“I thought I saved you.”
“Maybe you saved yourself.”
She cried.
“Yes.”
There.
Then:
“I saw Thomasin and thought… there. Life.”
Brutal honesty.
“She was not a replacement wife in my head.”
“What was she?”
“A door forward.”
“Celia was still alive.”
“I know.”
Finally.
No defense.
“I know how ugly that is now.”
I believed her.
Then I owned mine.
“I let you run everything because I was tired.”
“Yes.”
“I blamed you later for decisions I could have checked.”
She looked at me.
“That is true too.”
No one likes balanced accountability when one person did more harm.
Still useful.
I said:
“You lied about Miriam’s recommendations.”
“I distorted.”
“You told people she said things she didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Lie.”
Beatrice closed eyes.
“Yes.”
There.
No euphemism.
May you like
That was progress.
────────────────────
