Love, The Way He Wants It
What did I ever do to make him hate me so much? I was good to him, or so I thought, but I see now that how I loved him was not how he needed to be loved. I suppose I smothered him. That’s what he used to tell me, but I never understood how. All I wanted was for him to be happy, successful. I wanted to teach him how life must be lived, to achieve was he was destined to achieve.
When he was a child, he loved me. He was my special man. He took great pleasure in making me happy. He was obedient and considerate. But as he grew older, he became more independent. He no longer took my advice even though I knew he was making mistakes. It pained me to see him on the wrong path.
But he did OK for himself, anyway, and I was happy for that although I admit I felt cast aside. I felt useless because he no longer needed my counsel. And each time I tried to help him, to offer some suggestion, he would get angry, as if I didn’t respect his choices.
It wasn’t a matter of respect for his choices. It was that I was his mother. I needed him to need me, and it pained me that he didn’t. He didn’t need my advice, didn’t need my money, didn’t need my comfort, didn’t need my love.
I think there is no greater rejection than a child for a mother, except perhaps a mother for her child.
I am just starting to understand that he would have needed me for the most important thing of all if I had only offered it: unconditional love. Instead, I only grudgingly accepted that he was perfectly fine without me. I never really rooted for him because I was too concerned trying to figure out a way to make myself needed. Whenever he achieved something good, I’d be sure to let him know that it might have been even better if he’d only done it a different way.
If I’d only told him that I trusted him to make the best decision for himself things might not have ended as they did… not really talking for decades, save some meaningless conversation at the occasional wedding or funeral or other family event.
This was the greatest sadness and frustration of my life…that my one and only child had no love for me, not even at the end.
Sometimes, I try to talk to him, differently now, but I’m not sure he hears me. I think the only voice of mine he hears in his head is the one I put in there when he was young.
He seems happy and well-adjusted. I suppose I should be grateful for that, but of course, this was not my doing. Perhaps if he’d failed in his life, I could have thought, “See, he really did need me after all,” but in fact, he was right all along. He didn’t need me because I never gave him what he wanted most: to simply be accepted as he was.
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