When you grow up without a Mom

This past weekend was Mothers Day. I’ve always wished everyone a Happy Mother’s Day. Everyone I know is a mother. It’s a sign of respect in my opinion. However, most people don’t know I didn’t grow up with mine. She wasn’t in my life.

No, I’m not sad nor mad about it. That was just how life played out.

Obviously, my dad was married to her but it didn’t work out.

Simply put, my mother — Tammie — did cocaine and drank too (if I’m not mistaken). That made her a “bad” person. Every couple of years, I get bits and pieces as to who she was and who she is.

Am I mad at her? No. How can I be?

The last time I saw her was in 2012 at the bus station. I remember asking if she knew who I was because she did seem out of it. Sober but out of it. Told her she had a nephew. She said she knew. At that time, she was — okay though.

As I tell many people who ask. I can’t be mad at someone I don’t actually know. Everyone thought I should be angry at her for leaving before I turned 1 years old. I felt like my dad was more angry than anything but he did what he had to do to protect me. I only know of how my mother was to my dad and the interactions with other people.

Currently, I don’t know much about her but to some extent I would need to find out “my origin”. Anything I should look forward as I get older? Genetic disorders? Even what I’m mixed with. These are things I need to know honestly.

But hey, sometimes that’s something that might have to stay buried.

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