Why I Didn't Want to Tell Anyone My Mother Died

Talking about it means being reminded that I never truly had a 'mom'

I never knew what I would write—or if I would write—when my mother’s death arrived. It came the day after Christmas. At age 85 and in ailing health, she laid down on her bed and drifted off peacefully, never to return.

When her caregiver called to give me the news, I told only my husband. A few days later, I emailed a few friends to let them know, but otherwise, I kept it to myself. I’m back in Italy and have been seeing people, but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, even if it is the only thing I can think about, and I’m barely able to function.

Telling others means having to hear them say things that only remind me that I never truly had a mom, even if I had a life-long relationship with the person who gave birth to me.

Even with the few people I told, I had to endure attempts to console me that didn’t land because they were talking about the kind of mother that I never had.

Ultimately, I felt I should say something since I’ve been absent here as I’m trying to untangle all the competing…