Tomorrow is the first-year anniversary of my son’s death. My mother has never referred to him with his name or called him her grandson. Every time I tried talking about Eric to her, she told me to “turn over this leaf,” “forget about it and move on,” and “concentrate on having another baby.”
All week long she has been insistently recommending that N and I watch a certain movie that would distract us and help us have a good time. Last night we started watching the movie. The protagonist, a woman who has the same name as me, and her husband had a baby who died right after being born. The grieving parents realized that their life has no meaning and started going nuts, trying to slaughter each other. The moral of the story is that, in spite of being professionally successful and living in a big, beautiful house, these people have a thwarted meaningless existence because their baby died.
I didn’t know how to explain to N what possessed me to put on this movie at this particular point in time. We spent half the night crying.
The reason why I’m writing these posts is that if I don’t share these stories, they will keep poisoning me from the inside. I wanted to spend today and tomorrow thinking about my son and the great love he brought to our lives. Instead, I’m crying because of my mother’s wanton cruelty towards me. This cruelty has been life-long and has accompanied me throughout my life.

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