I Thought Love Would Be What Remained...

When I was a little girl, I used to hide behind a red velvet couch and imagine the woman I would become. It’s where my dad would settle in on Saturday afternoons because Mom was working at the local IGA to make ends meet. We kids were supposed to be outside playing—where my three siblings and I would drink from the garden hose and slide down the scorching metal slide in the backyard. But I loved being near my dad and would often disobey his Saturday afternoon requests. Instead, I’d sneak behind the couch, with the scent of Stroh’s in the air, and go to my happy place. Here I’d pretend I was a wealthy princess living in a castle… or The Professor on Gilligan’s Island who had all the answers… or a grown-up with beautiful children of my own… or a famous author who could write the most beautiful prose telling my children how much I loved them.

And I did all this quietly,

behind the couch,

near my daddy,

in secret.

Because I loved to draw and write and…

Because I loved him so much.

Even though he had his faults.

And what do I mostly remember about my own parents?

Not Dad’s drinking.

Not Mom working on Saturdays.

And not their parental mistakes.

It was their love—something I felt deeply even though I don’t remember them ever saying those words.

Spoiler alert:

I never became a wealthy princess—that’s difficult when you’re married to a teacher and become one yourself. I never became The Professor—although I did try as a doctoral student studying the art of curricular design. But I did become a mother—one who was proud of the two boys my husband and I raised. And I did write beautiful prose about my love for them over the years.

And I’ve told them repeatedly, out loud, that I love them.

Before “Eli” stopped talking to me, I thought I knew who I was. I was a meticulous planner and organizer who color coded closets and placed labels on cabinets. I was that mother, teacher, church lady who organized play dates, delivered engaging lessons, and directed Vacation Bible School. My husband and I were the couple you could count on to be at every sporting event, lead the scouts, and help with any necessary carpooling. We were the dependable, go-get-‘em parents who played with our kids and loved them hard. We saved every penny for summer vacations hoping to give our boys experiences we hadn't had growing up. Camping across the country was probably the most extravagant for my little family of four in an air-conditioned VW van—not in the bed of a pickup truck like the one my parents had when they hauled their kids and nieces across the country during the hot summer of ’69. Oh, THAT was quite a remarkable vacation. What I remember most about that trip, though, isn't how we traveled. It's how much fun we had together.

And my cousins, siblings, and I still laugh about it today.

Perhaps that's why I believed love would cover my parental mistakes, too. I knew I hadn't been a perfect mother. But when I looked back at my own imperfect childhood, love was what remained. Somewhere along the way, I assumed the same would be true for my boys.

Then I received a five-page scathing letter from a son I thought I had loved hard enough to weather any storm. Perhaps the most disorienting part wasn't that Eli was so angry. It was realizing that our recently shared experiences could hold entirely different meanings—and create very different realities—for both of us. And he made it painfully clear during the FaceTime call that followed.

He used the word “repulsion.”

He said I didn’t have empathy for his wife.

That we didn’t welcome her into the family.

I soon realized none of the things I thought were important seemed to matter.

Not the vacations.

Not the holiday traditions.

Not the time, energy, or resources we'd poured into raising him.

I believed our efforts were enough. I believed showing up was enough. I believed if I did my job well enough, my family would be okay.

But we weren’t.

And while wallowing in the muck, I believed there could be only one explanation.

I FAILED.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

The Spiral

After the call, I began to spiral.

Fast.

If you stopped by my house during the weeks and months that followed, you’d probably notice a few things out of sorts. There were dirty dishes in the sink, laundry piled up, and mismatched socks on my feet. And dare I admit, questionable dental hygiene. But underneath the mess was something I hadn't experienced before. Soul-piercing despair.

I never saw estrangement coming.

No trauma I had experienced matched its depth.

It nearly destroyed me.

Perhaps you can relate to this turmoil. If so, I am so sorry. And if your adult child has cut you out of their life, join the club. I was stunned to discover how many of us were holding membership cards—a truth I found unsettling after I finally brushed my teeth, put on nicer clothes, and headed to the library.

To search for answers.

Evidently, you can take the teacher out of the school, but you can’t take learning out of the teacher.

I read and read and read… a lot.

I watched a gazillion podcasts. Yes, I watch them rather than listen.

And took notes like a graduate student.

The experts said, “Write an apology.”

So, I did.

But after writing, editing, and finally sending a letter of amends, more than six months passed. Birthdays, holidays, and even Eli’s graduation came and went without a single text, call, or card. Eventually, I had to confront the possibility that he wasn't coming back—at least not anytime soon.

The Shift

The person I thought I was began to change because the identities I'd relied upon no longer fit. I was still a teacher, although retired. I was still a mother, even though one of my sons no longer wanted me in his life.

Then I asked myself this question:

Who might I become if someone I loved with everything I had no longer accepts me?

That's when Eli stopped being a problem I was trying to solve, and I became the person I needed to understand.

But that shift had actually begun months earlier, during the darkest part of my depression.

About six weeks after sending my letter of amends—and still hearing crickets—something unexpected appeared on my phone: a memory of an old friend who had died years earlier. With it came advice she'd given me more than twenty years ago—advice I had largely ignored at the time.

This time, I listened.

Because I had nothing left to lose.

I booked my first Reiki session.

After that, things got weird.

And I became alive again.

Life is full of experiences with trauma we never would have chosen. What we do with all of this becomes our story.

I spent months trying to figure out how to get my son back. The pain was insurmountable. Then eventually, another question began to nag at me:

Who might I become if he didn't come back?

Perhaps that little girl was still inside, still hiding behind the red velvet couch—quietly imagining a new version of the woman she could become.

And this time, she wasn't pretending to be a princess or a professor.

She picked up a pen.

And began again.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this post. Please know I appreciate it!

With love, -Sonja