Ocean

Dear readers, today's story navigates the complex bonds between mothers and sons. Through reflections of my own family history and the insightful lens of Steve Leder's “The Beauty of What Remains,” we explore the enduring impact of these relationships.

Saturday night, under the soft pink light of my bedroom lamp, I found myself engrossed in the pages of Steve Leder's “The Beauty of What Remains.” It was the eve of an anniversary – that of my mother Evangelia's passing – a time when memories visit like old, familiar friends.

Leder's book, rich with truths, became a gateway to understanding my past. His beautiful, yet heartbreaking chapter “An Ocean of Grief ” evoked memories of my mother's endless love yet stirred thoughts of Aglaia, my paternal grandmother, whose life story remains shrouded in mystery.

Aglaia, mother to my father, Nicolas, has always been a shadowy figure in our family's history. My physical inheritance from her is a small, unpretentious gold medallion, engraved with an ‘A’, a keepsake from a past that is both distant and unreal.

Her passing, in 1974, leaves a void filled with countless unanswered questions.

Leder's phrase, “we lose so much love to death, and if that love was real and deep, the grief is real and deep,”captured the essence of the mystery surrounding her relationship with my father.

Aglaia's influence in Nicolas's life is shrouded in ambiguity.

A noticeable absence of childhood photos speaks volumes. Their relationship was a complex interplay of pain and discord, with my father yearning for maternal affection and approval, only to encounter a wall of bitterness. Emotions and interactions were muddled. Love punctuated with sharp stings of resentment.

Leder's observation, “we who mourn walk in a fog sometimes. We fake it a lot. We wear a mask of normalcy, and sometimes you are talking to that mask... That is the truth that we want you to know and the truth we also hide,” is a revelation.

It captured the bare essence of my father – a man who had become adept at hiding his inner turmoil beneath facades of stoicism and humour. Saturday night, I was transported back to his bedside, feeling the weight of our unspoken words, as he quietly slipped away. Whispering a promise to keep his love alive in my heart, I felt a connection that transcended time and grief.

In the years that followed, through therapy, I began to see the long shadows cast by our family's complex history. It dawned on me how these entangled — no — how these enmeshed relationships — influenced my decision to marry a man who also grappled with a fraught relationship with his own mother. “That is the secret truth of memory in grief; it is exquisite, and it hurts,” writes Leder.

The mask my father wore to hide his grief, the mask my then husband wore to hide his feelings of inadequacy — they are one and the same, a reflection of the legacies we inherit and the paths we choose to walk.