Chapter Three

High Expectations and Shortcomings

            My mother and I moved in with her boyfriend, John, a couple of years ago, uprooting our lives from Pennsylvania to settle in his town-home in New Jersey. I'd never liked winter, but this one was proving itself to be the worst. A month and a half had passed - roughly forty days - since I'd spoken to my mother. Nearly two months without anything more than a monotone yes or no answer to a basic question, and she still hadn't noticed. She hadn't noticed that I had imprisoned myself to my room. She hadn't noticed that I no longer had any interest in speaking with her, or in my own social life. She hadn't noticed that I was beginning to hate him - her boyfriend. She hadn't noticed anything about me. She hadn't noticed me. And it filled me with an anger that nothing else ever had, but after yet another week passed, that burning anger settled out into deep disappointment.

Being that, unlike my father, my mother has been with me from the beginning of my life, my bond to her is sewn with things like loyalty, trust and protectiveness, as well as the usual love and appreciation that one has for their mother. Because of this, when she lost interest in me . . . I felt betrayed. Utterly, and completely betrayed, alone and unwanted. If my mother no longer wanted me . . . who did? If my own mother didn't care if I was happy . . . if she didn't care about me . . . who ever would? And one night, when I was asking myself related questions I realized something.

'Why is he more important than me? Why does she want him when he treats her so badly? He doesn't even care about her - he treats her like trash. I've always been here for her; I've always caught her when she's fallen. Every time he broke her heart . . . I've always helped her get back on her feet, never letting her hit rock bottom. How could she forget about that? How could she let me hit rock bottom?' these questions swirled through my mind on the second-month-mark of my silent protest to my mother's actions . . . or lack-there-of. But the longer I asked myself these things . . . the more it made sense. 

My mother had grown up in a home where her mother did everything for her alcoholic step-father, who was not very nice and who was rather abusive to both my mother and her brother, and her mother. Her mother allowed this to happen for over sixteen years, and because of this, taught my mother that this was acceptable behavior. Additionally, my mother was left out of several things while growing up. Her family would go on family vacations and leave her behind to stay with her father, who wanted little-to-nothing to do with her. She didn't have a voice in her own family, and she wasn't cared for in any obvious fashion. It is because of this that she didn't realize anything was wrong. It was also because of this that I learned a lesson that is taught only through having expectations that are two high.

It wouldn't make sense to give a toddler a novel, because he wouldn't know what to do with it. It wouldn't make sense to give a ninety-two year old an iPhone 5, because she wouldn't know how to operate it. It wouldn't make sense to give a dog a toothbrush, because it doesn't even know what teeth are. So how could someone put a child in my mother's arms, and expect her to know how to serve all of her needs? Why had I expected my mother to know that she should have asked me if something was wrong? Nobody had ever asked her that as a child growing up. Why had I expected my mother to put me over her relationship with her boyfriend? Her mother had never done that for her in the case of her step-father. It was in this that I learned that you cannot expect more from a person than what they are capable of, and that, if you do . . . it doesn't benefit anyone. I also learned that you have to forgive people for their shortcomings. My mother has always done her best, and because of that, our bond remain intact.