Sometimes when I go back into the past, it doesn’t feel like I’m alone.

It feels like I’m working alongside my mom.

Not the version of her I remember growing up. The one who felt distant, controlled, and sometimes hard to read. The version I knew was shaped by what I experienced as a kid, and for a long time, that was the only version that existed for me.

But that’s not the only version anymore.

Through her memoirs, I’m seeing a different side of her. One she didn’t show, or maybe couldn’t show at the time. There’s more emotion there. More context. More of her as a person, not just as a parent.

And the two don’t always line up.

I’ll read something she wrote and recognize pieces of the life I remember, but from a completely different angle. Sometimes it softens things. Sometimes it raises new questions. Sometimes it just sits there, unresolved.

It’s like having a conversation that never got to happen.

One that’s happening now, just a lot later than it should have.

As I write, I find myself responding to what she left behind. Filling in gaps. Questioning details. Trying to understand not just what happened, but how she saw it, and why.

And in doing that, something shifts.

There’s another part of this that’s harder to write about.

As I’ve been reading through her memoirs, I can see how much she was carrying. She was constantly solving problems, trying to make things work without much support from her own parents, and dealing with tension from her in-laws at the same time. From her perspective, life felt like a continuous uphill climb, with things rarely falling into place as they should.

I can see that now.

But that’s not how it felt growing up.

From my perspective (and from what I’ve heard from my siblings), it was different. She could be mean, controlling, and difficult to be around. There were times when things crossed the line into physical discipline that didn’t feel like discipline at all. Looking back, it’s hard not to wonder if there were things going on that were never diagnosed or understood at the time.

She ran the house. She controlled the money. What she said went.

And for us, the safest place to be was usually outside, out of sight.

That part doesn’t go away just because I understand more now.

Understanding what she was going through doesn’t erase what we experienced. But it does change how I see it. It adds another layer. A layer that doesn’t excuse anything, but makes it harder to look at things in simple terms.

It’s not one version or the other.

It’s both.

I’m not forgetting what I experienced.

I’m not rewriting it.

But I am seeing it differently.

There’s a part of this that feels like it’s moving toward forgiveness. Not all at once, and not cleanly. These aren’t small things, and they don’t just disappear with time.

If anything, looking back at them more closely makes them feel more real.

But it also makes them easier to understand.

I’ve heard people say that time heals all wounds.

I don’t think that’s true on its own.

Time just gives you distance. What you do with that distance is what matters.

For me, that’s meant going back. Reading, writing, trying to piece things together while I still can. I can’t ask her questions. I can’t go back and clarify what she meant or how she felt in the moment.

This is what I have.

Her words. My memories. The space in between.

And somewhere in that space, I’m starting to understand her in a way I never did before.

It doesn’t erase anything.

But it changes something.

And for now, that’s enough.