Courtesy Katrina Donham
Just a week out from her wedding, my mom sent the following text to our family group text: "Oh yeah, I wanted to ask y'all something very important." After a minute-long pause, she wrote, "Would you four girls want to walk me down the aisle and give me away to Bryan?"
My 54-year-old mother and her 49-year-old fiancé, Bryan, had been dating for nearly six years when they announced they were getting married last Thanksgiving. My mom made the announcement as my sisters and I were preparing our holiday meal. She was grinning ear-to-ear, visibly elated while side-hugging her beau. My sisters and I stood shell-shocked because although we knew this day would likely come, we still weren't prepared for the news.
Our introduction to Bryan started off on rocky footing, as his relationship with my mother sparked at the tail-end of a tumultuous divorce from my father. Among small annoyances, the biggest nuisance was that my mother never gave us a formal introduction to Bryan. We would "run into him" in public places, or she would bring him to a family gathering without any forewarning.
For us, this new relationship was a lot to take in, especially when we were all reeling from the excruciating end to our parents' 30-year marriage and still grieving the loss of our little brother to suicide in 2015. Moreover, we were worried that our mother was making a brash decision and that it would end just as her relationship with our father had ended: painfully.
Over the years, Bryan made more effort to build a relationship with my sisters and me. He redeemed himself by apologizing for his previous immature behavior in a handwritten letter to me and my sisters. Further, he not only displayed his love and respect for our mother but also went out of his way to share his intentions and feelings, which, to our relief, were genuine and true.
I realized that my initial impression of him was based on the behaviors of two freshly divorced and deeply hurt individuals, not on who he was as a person. My concerns about him began to waver, and I started to accept Bryan as my mom's "other half."
As a "parentified" child, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence playing the role of parent to my young mother. She and my father married at the courthouse when she was 16 and he was 18, and she gave birth to me a year later. From a young age, I was my mother's best friend, confidant, and personal assistant. I cooked, cleaned, spoke to debt collectors on the phone, and folded laundry. In moments of high stress, I wiped away her tears and told her she was a good mother. I also enforced rules, set boundaries, and even disciplined my four younger siblings when my parents weren't home or emotionally unavailable.
My mom and dad struggled emotionally, mentally, and financially for the majority of my childhood. We lived paycheck to paycheck, which caused countless volatile arguments between my parents. When I was old enough to get a job, I also helped pay the bills.
I've spent nearly two years now in therapy trying to heal from my childhood. Therapy has shown me that I am not responsible for my parents' behaviors or their life choices. It has also given me the space to release the deep-seated emotions I've buried and has permitted me to relinquish responsibility. I've come to accept that what my mother needs is different from what I think she needs, and that's OK. I've also realized my mother's decisions are not a reflection of me or my worth but rather are a reflection of who she is.
Yet, as I heard wedding bells in the distance with each passing day leading up to my mom's wedding date, I couldn't stop the circuitous and ceaseless questions regarding her fiancé: Was he trustworthy? Would and/or could he take care of her, both financially and emotionally? Was my mother making another decision she'd later regret? Would I be willing to accept this person as her life partner?
Thankfully, as the big day rapidly approached, my therapist encouraged me to think back to my most recent visits and interactions with her and Bryan. She coached me to observe and note my mother's demeanor when she was around him. By quieting my own thoughts and critiques of my mother and her relationship with this man, whom I was still getting to know, I saw her. She was lighter, happier, freer than I had seen her — ever. So, why should I worry about the "what ifs" when the "what is" was standing right there in front of me?
My mother's casual yet profound text message request solidified her stance on our mother-daughter relationship and offered something new: an olive branch of peace, an offering to let go.
And on that beautiful, sunny spring day last March, my sisters and I walked our mother down the boardwalk, over the sandy dunes, down to the beach, and to her groom, who was weeping buckets of happy tears. My mother, stunning in a traditional white wedding dress with flawless makeup and her jet-black curls in a timeless updo, was a beautiful, beaming bride. When asked by the officiant who was giving our mother away, my sisters and I replied in unison while holding a picture of our deceased and sorely missed brother: "We do."
