I loved your mother more than I ever liked you.

Little girl, do you remember when we dated? We met within the bookshelves of your favorite Borders on a muggy night in August. We laughed as we introduced ourselves near the self-help section. It all seems so fitting, looking back on it. I was feeling sorry for myself (a recovering alcoholic who wasn’t even 18 yet!) and you were craving attention (some sort of self-described “deranged writer” who believed her soul was a lot more twisted than it really was). A recipe for disaster at most, but we joined together and we took each other down a beaten path with our hands clasped tight.

One night, you told me you were in love with me. I laughed at you. It had only been a few weeks since we had met and we barely knew each other. The one thing I knew was that I loved your eyes. I called you sunflower eyes. They were so big and blue with strands of yellow that seeped across the pupils. We lay side-by-side, entangled in sheets, and as I laughed I could see the flowers wither. You melted into yourself and it almost made me cringe.

Your mother adored me. She was so sweet, so wounded. I was drawn to her more than you. You were nothing but mean to the world. You were snarky and pompous. You liked hurting people, especially her. You said it was for the sake of art. You were a writer, damnit! Sometimes you would make her cry in front of me, so I would defend her. You would later take me into your room and reprimand me like a child. I’d shoot an intense glare from within my soul, making sure to pierce through your impish eyes. When I really dissected you, I realized they were set widely apart and bulged when you got upset. I stuck around all those months for your mom.

She was so sweet, so wounded.

Your mother was one of the worst active alcoholics I’d ever met. The way she hid the bottles in random cabinets and drawers, the way the scent of red wine would permeate through her skin and flush her cheeks, the sloppy sobbing followed by a bout of hysterical laughter. I’d never seen someone hurt so badly. She was crying for help all of the time and none of you did anything. Your father traveled a lot. He kept his distance from the house; there was always some type of ongoing insanity that he couldn’t deal with. He had cold eyes. There were no sunflowers in them. They were icy ponds frozen by years of winters and the brutality that goes along with the cold. I never saw him hug you. Your mom loved hugs.

When I would come over, she would sweep me into her arms like a newborn. It was comforting, reassuring. She felt my pain as I felt hers. She called me her daughter and she loved to brush my hair. She would buy me packs of cigarettes and sometimes late at night she would sneak out of the side door to smoke one with me. I would spend every weekend with you and she would always invite me to extend my visit. The food was exceptional, it was hard to decline. I dealt with you because she needed someone.

Your sister and you would take turns abusing her. You were seventeen years old and your poor alcoholic mother was waiting on you hand and foot. She would wake up at 6:00 every morning to supply the family with a hearty breakfast. She’d pack lunches, make beds, do laundry. Sometimes you would go to school and I would spend the day with her, helping her. I never could distinguish the times that she would sneak off to drink. She was a Stepford wife and none of you wanted to deal with the side that came out during the night.

She was so sweet, so wounded.

Remember that time that we went to a party at one of your classmate’s houses? You attached me to your arm and called me a trophy wife. You were only half-kidding, you assured me. I hated the crowd you hung out with and all I could think about was going back to your house so we could play with your dogs and watch more of those cheesy slasher films you loved so much. I absorbed everything around me like a sponge. My mind drifted in and out and you made fun of me to your friends. “Do you want a drink?” one boy politely asked me. Before I could even respond, you shook your hand and shouted, “she’s a recovering alcoholic!” That would have been okay, but you laughed. You laughed at me the way you laughed at your mother. I felt ashamed and out of place.

She later told me that she felt that way, too. She knew she was an alcoholic, she confided. But it didn’t fit with the life she was supposed to be living. She felt paralyzed by your father, by the way you treated her, by the town you lived in. She was scared and isolated. That bottle of wine comforted her each and every night. I wanted to take away her pain.

I’ll never forget the sight we saw when we returned to your house after the party that night. Your mother excitedly stood by the door, her head peering out the window as we pulled up into your driveway. She looked like a puppy, antsy to talk to us. She was intoxicated; the Merlot oozed out of her mouth and into the air. I never did see her drink… but there was no mistaking that bittersweet smell.

She was so sweet, so wounded.

A huge platter with perfectly arranged sections of tomato, lettuce, feta cheese and cucumber had been created. She had made us a giant Greek salad and sliced bread. There was olive oil to dip with and a homemade salad dressing. I was taken aback, as it was after midnight. She stood there smiling and prompting us to eat. She asked all about our night and excitedly moved her hands. She was such a good Jewish mother, it was almost impossible to tell that she had only converted for your father. She loved and loved, but where did the love go?

I guess it went to the same place that your “love” for me went. Into the void of darkness, unrequited and unreciprocated. And I could see the hurt in her eyes and I could feel the disappointment in your voice. There was so much lost in translation that none of us would ever be able to decipher.

I could never love someone who was so selfish. You would scream at her when she would get drunk in the evenings. Sometimes when we were in the living room we could hear her rustling about in the kitchen. Some nights we would hear singing and other nights we would hear muffled sobs. On those occasions I would slip into the darkness, doll in one hand and tissues in the other. She loved the doll. She would be crumpled in a pathetic mess by the oven, her shoulders wobbling and her eyes spouting tears like a fountain. I’d curl up next to her and pet her arm. She would tell me that she loved me, that she was so happy you met me, that she hated feeling this way. She would stroke my hair and most of the time she would look more fragile than the ragdoll I’d hand to her.

She knew I understood. It was our secret.

I tried for months to get her help. I gave her countless numbers of pamphlets, books, hugs. I listened during the day, I sat with her during the night. You would walk by us on your way up to bed and look at her with disgust. You’d call her a sloppy drunk and tell her you hated her. I could never love you. You hated her and she was me. In the depths of all of my sadness, she showed me so many things. I wanted to be strong for someone. I wanted to be better.

Your mom gave me some of her most treasured jewelry one night. She told me that you would never respect it the way I would. Most of it I left behind for her to recollect… I couldn’t take from a woman who gave so much of herself to everyone. I did keep one ring, though. It was silver and had turquoise stones all around it. It fit me as perfectly as it fit her. Your fingers were too small to wear it. I kept it on for the longest time.

I wore it until the night she decided she hated me.

You made the mistake of telling her that I was your girlfriend. I don’t know why you did it. You had already waited months. And we had agreed to wait until we got her help. She wasn’t stable enough. She wasn’t ready. We knew that regardless of her prompting and questioning and assuring us she’d be fine if it were true, she wouldn’t be. I knew that her mind wouldn’t be able to fully handle it. But you were through with me. I knew by then you wanted me out of your life. You told her while I was there. She kicked me out of the house within twenty minutes of you coming clean. She was wasted and enraged. She had your eyes, but in the hue of emerald green. I’ll never forget their color or shape. The eyes that once searched mine for help, for hope, suddenly turned dark and angry. The tables had turned. I was at the opposite end and I suddenly understood your feelings towards her.

A week later I went to your house to pick up my clothes. She had wanted me to leave things in your house so I didn’t have to pack when I was planning to stay. You and I had broken up that night you told her we had been dating. We hadn’t spoken and I felt void inside. When my friend pulled up to your house, I found my clothes strewn across the top of the driveway. Your mother stood by the window in the house. Even at the top of the driveway I could feel her piercing eyes glaring at me. She glared out that same window that she used to greet me from. I can still feel that smile. She could have been so beautiful.

I waved to her in hopes of us finding peace, but she turned her back to me. That was the last time I ever saw her.

I went to an A.A. meeting that night. I took the ring and I placed it on one of the broken down coffee tables. I put my hand over it and squeezed my eyes shut as the closing prayer was recited. It was the first time in years that I prayed. I prayed for your mom and I prayed for you and I prayed for me. I walked out with an empty finger and a small hole inside of me. There was a realization that it was she that had taken a piece of my heart that night, not you.

I hoped that someone would find the ring and take care of it. I hoped that someday she would find peace and take care of herself.

I loved your mother more than I ever liked you.