I am writing to wish you a Happy Mother’s Day.
I have never been able to say those words to you directly, but I’m sure they have WiFi in Heaven so you can read this.
I was three years old when you died, so I never had the opportunity to create a homemade Mother’s Day gift, write you a poem about how much you mean to me, or take you out to a fancy dinner to celebrate your special day.
You didn’t get to find out that I grew up to be a writer, and proudly boast to your friends that some production company gave your son a big check for some silly script he wrote, or give me feedback on anything I’ve ever written. You never got to see one of my movies, watch me on TV, or listen to me on the radio.
We never got to see if I was the Mamma’s Boy everyone assumes I’d be. You never got to tell me what you thought about any girl I was seeing, cry at my wedding, or console me after my divorce.
I was so young when you died that I sadly have absolutely no memories of you, Mom, and that bothers me so much. To make things worse, we never talked about you when I was growing up. When Mary Lou called me last Sunday to tell me it was the anniversary of your death, it was the first time I was ever aware of what day you were taken from us.
I’m not sure why we were raised this way. I know so little about you. I do have two photos of you, however, on my mantel. One is of you and Daddy cutting your wedding cake. The other is of the two of you sitting on the porch of your Summer place.
I just wanted you to know that I’m doing okay. Your little boy grew up to be a somewhat well adjusted man. You’d really like The House on the Hill, and I think you would enjoy coming up to Maine for visits.
I know that there is an emptiness in my life because I grew up without you, but I am doing the best I can to adapt and make my way in the world.
I advise you that I miss you on Mother’s Day, that I think about you often, and that I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.
Your loving son,