Homeless love Revised June 2026
Today, Mother's Day, is a hard day – I am childless and motherless. There are shadows of grief and soft-light sorrow.
My mother was a survivor of Nazi occupation and the daughter of a violent drunk.
Growing up, my antennae never rested. Although my mom could have me holding my stomach with laughter, pressed money in my hand without being asked, she could snap: On occasion, there were shattered dishes, and more commonly, words screamed out in Dutch. I consoled my mom through her flashbacks but hid from her tantrums. One time, I yelled back and broke the vacuum. She answered with a smack.
But we continued to joke and laugh. We were soccer fans, shared evenings at the stadium watching games. Together, we walked and biked and swam.
When I read Mother's Day cards, or saw messages on Facebook, the moms described had "unending patience" and they were all a "steadfast rock." I never had that.
Later, I hesitated to have children. I wasn't sure I would be any more stable or any less volatile than her. I only started trying at 37 and kept trying until 42. When I stopped, I ached and wept.
In 2021, I crossed the country to take care of my mom. As she was dying, I fed her morphine and wiped her bum. Despite everything, my love for her was deeper than bone and despite everything, I knew that she loved me. Her absence left a crater, and the tears still come. When she died, I felt torn from the Earth. Detached from life—no branches ahead of me; no roots behind.
My love became homeless.
On the first Mother's Day after her death, my body shut down. I tried moving, sitting, lying down, breathing. I counted the seconds until the day was over.
Eventually, I adjusted to my mom's absence – as much as anyone can. But Mother's Day still stings.
I wanted a better relationship with my mom; I miss her and the tears still come – for the child I did not have.
On this day, I live with whatever presents itself. I notice the silence and sparseness. I offer soft touch to myself – in the harrowed places.