In our book I reveal things about myself that may seem shocking. Being molested by an uncle as a child. Drug use in my teens and early twenties. Depression. Anxiety. I had wondered if it was a good idea to open myself up like that, knowing family and friends, and yes, my children, would be able to read it. But I knew I had to write my story.
At the time, a little over a year ago, Billy was about to turn twenty-two and Steven was nineteen. All three of my guys were happy for me, and I think proud. Did I expect any of them to actually read it? I hoped they would. But, it is a book about mothers and daughters, written by four women. For a moment I regretted not having a daughter to read my story. Would a man, especially a young man, be interested?
My husband read my section of the book. He said he cried while reading about my struggle with postpartum depression and the chapter about my mother’s death. He told me he thought I was brave to write some of the things I did. I said he should read the other three sections, and he said he would, but he hasn’t so far.
Billy claimed to have too much to do, and yes, he is very busy, with school and work and friends. Though I do notice he has plenty of time to read the Game of Thrones books.
Steven started with my section and then read the whole book. This was not unexpected; Steven is a sensitive and generous person. I knew he wanted to read it for me. Yet I was surprised at how interested he was in the stories. He would knock on my door, book in hand, and ask if I had time to talk. Of course, I’d say. We had many discussions that grew out of his reading. He was seeing me not just as his mother, but as someone’s child, as a teenager, as a young adult unsure of what she wanted from her life, or how to proceed once she found out.
As we talked I realized how much my son needed me to write this book. That revelation was bittersweet.