When your memory and somebody else’s memory don’t match, it’s crazy making. When my mom says we were an ordinary family, that her husband was a smart and sensitive man with a good heart, it makes me feel I am the crazy one, especially when my dad doesn’t recognize me anymore and he is much easier to deal with when I am not his child but a nice stranger who visits him.
We rewrite memories to survive. That’s fine. I do, too. I’m glad you had a happy marriage, Mom. And you guys did your best. But it’s not my story. You may not rewrite mine. It’s mine, not yours. I am not responsible for yours, neither do you.