Family of Origin

Someone asked about me. So, she called because she didn't have an answer. But she had a reminder: your daughter, just one politely questioning stranger and one phone call away.

I hate it when they call. The phone says 'International' and I wince. Sometimes I don't answer. Most times, my husband picks the phone up and hands it to me silently. I sigh and pull deeper inside. My voice drops. The curtain falls on my emotions.

"Hello."

The phone call is as shallow as our lives have been. What is new? Anything else? My mother says XYZ have asked about me. She lists their names. I don't know most of them. The others, I pretend I don't. It's easier that way. I feel in control.

We talk about Dad, who is taking calculus. My mum mentions that she was good at Math in high school. Very good. I pause, because this sudden burst of confidence is out of character. Suddenly I engage: "Were you gifted, too?"

My mum shyly but proudly affirms.

My thoughts race for a second, and then I elicit some stories from her while I focused on my reaction.

First, noting that there is a genetic link for my giftedness after all. It helps to be validated by biology.
Second, reinforced disappointment that she only shared this with me after THIRTY years and only when I asked. To be honest, I always thought my mum was a bit of an idiot. Hard-working, yes. Sensitive, yes. But not altogether there upstairs.
Third, that finally, finally, finally, finally, finally we have something to talk about. Something in common. A united experience. Knowledge to pass on.

So of course she changes the subject.

For the first time, I feel like there is a chance for us, which is on its own a very good thing. But surrounding that hope is a sea of increased anger, because I just can't accept how someone so gifted could have been so stupid and scared when it came to raising me.