Stitched Up: Her Present, Our Past, My Future

I wrote this essay a couple of years ago, not knowing when or where I would publish it. It’s original title was The Pattern Solves the Puzzle. I thought I might submit it to a literary journal, but none seemed right. The one that did seem right said it was a beautiful essay but publishing it would not wise. I didn’t argue because what’s the point? So: I’ve decided to publish it here and there are a number of reasons for this. I wrote this in late 2021, and since that time, my daughter has had her own daughter, my granddaughter in November 2022. I’ve not met her. In fact, I found out my daughter was pregnant in August 2022 via my niece’s Instagram feed. My extended family knew — and they kept this from me, because they didn’t want to upset me, among other reasons (that will be the subject of a separate essay), or so I found out later. I started, but failed, to keep a hand-written journal for my granddaughter so she would know me, but it felt so contrived. I write the truth, or at the least the truth as I see it, here, on my website, in essays. These essays often end up as collections in books I publish. Those books will be available forever, even if this website goes down. From a practical perspective, it’s much better to keep everything about me in one place, so if my granddaughter is curious — and I’m sure she will be — she will have a one-stop-shop for information about me, her mother and her grandmother. She will know where she came from and why things are as they are. As an aside, my daughter hasn’t spoken to me since April 2021 — one month after her wedding.

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Step 1: Pick the Pattern
(December 2020)

When I told you I was going to stitch you a wedding gift, you seemed happy. You weren’t unhappy. You may have even smiled, but the memory is a little fuzzy, so it might have been a curled, contempuous lip masquerading as a smile. I had learned to embroider in Hanoi in early 2020, and I wanted to share something of that time with you because you didn’t know me there. I often felt the hot flush of shame, explaining and making excuses to my friends why my daughter did not visit me in those four years. She’s just changed jobs, I would say. The timing isn’t right. She’s busy planning for her wedding. She and D don’t have any money because it’s going into their house. I asked you to visit many times, but the longer I was away, the more sure I was that you weren’t going to, even though I gifted you a passport for your 21st birthday, wanting you to travel because I came to it late. And I gave you a truckload of money for your house. The truth that confronts me is that you didn’t want to visit, had no intention of visiting. You didn’t want to be in a place where you weren’t the centre of attention (although you would have been), where you had no control, where you would be required to spend time with me.

I looked for an embroidery pattern, sifting through inappropriately jolly pictures that simply wouldn’t do for your wedding gift. I wanted something simple, elegant, refined. Something classy. Nothing at all like our relationship, which has been nothing but difficult since you turned sixteen. That was when you met D, your now husband. You looked at his life, compared it with ours, and made a subconscious decision, or maybe it was conscious, that you would do everything in your power to make his life yours too. It took you twelve years, but you did it, beginning by moving in with D and his family a year after I went to Hanoi. What you also did was discard the life and love I gave you, like it was less meaningful because it wasn’t ostentatious and showy and mansiony. You knew I couldn’t, wouldn’t compete, and you weren’t impressed that I didn’t even try, because I’ve been down that road before with my own mother and it wasn’t a journey I wanted to take again. You would have loved two families battling for your favour. Remember that Mother’s Day? The one where you were with D’s family the whole day — and evening? Do you remember what I said when you finally got home? You spent the whole day with people who didn’t give birth to you, who didn’t raise you. You looked suitably guilty and filed my words away under the label Things That Will Get My Mother Upset. You had a collection of these things, and they were designed to wound me, and you would fire them off every so often because it pleased you. You knew that spending time with you was the most important thing to me, so you would do anything to deprive me and make sure I didn’t get it.

I came back from Hanoi, mainly because I knew you wanted children, and you wanted them almost immediately after you were married. The relationship with my grandchildren-to-be was important to me and, of course, difficult to nurture from thousands of miles away. Video calls are no substitute for involvement. Now, I wonder how that relationship is going to play out because of how our relationship has panned out since your wedding. I wonder whether you will, in fact, not include me in their lives because it is hurtful to me and you love inflicting pain. It’s your favourite thing to do when it comes to me, almost like a hobby. I wonder what I did that has made you hate me, and I realise that quite likely, it’s not me.

Step 2: Stitch the Pattern
(March 2021)

The pattern I found was Love, written in cursive. The letters were formed by interlinked lazy daisies, chain stitch, stem stitch, bullion knots and French knots. The pattern called for white thread on white cloth, and I used linen I bought at my favourite fabric market in Hanoi. I was saving it for a special project, and this was it. I could see that the white thread was too plain, not fancy enough for a wedding gift, so as the sewing progressed, I added beads and sequins to embellish it. I found a craft group and stitched your pattern there, enjoying the companionship of women over tea and biscuits. It was hard coming back to Australia. Things were more or less the same, but I was different. I didn’t know where I fit and I had to find my people. I thought, mistakenly, that my people would be you. I asked for empathy from you. I didn’t get it.

When I got back home, I tried to spend time with you, but you kept cancelling on me, and you had many excuses. Wedding things. Photography things. House things. Bridesmaid things. D and his family things. I asked you to define our relationship, to articulate if you wanted me in your life, to explain why you didn’t like me. I didn’t get a response from you. I didn’t go to your hen’s night as a protest. I didn’t show up because I hadn’t heard from you. It was childish, but I wanted to test you. I wanted to see if I would be missed. I wasn’t, unless you count the possible embarrassment of your mother not showing up to your hen’s night and your having to explain why. I’m sure you devised a suitable lie. You were always good at that. But I did go to your wedding.

I was surprised that you asked me to give you away because you were always opposed to the idea. S will do it, you said. Why would your fiancee’s father give you away? I responded. He didn’t raise you. I did. If I can’t give you away at your wedding, I’m not going. Same old argument. In the end you relented, as a peace offering. At least, that’s what I assumed. We’d had another argument while I was in Hanoi that was really a power struggle about money and a fight for me to be relevant, and you asked me after months of silence. Thrilled to be included, this was one thing I had to look forward to in my quest for repatriation. I assumed, expected, hoped that this was the start of a new relationship with you, and that you would look at me as a friend rather than a parent. My assumptions and expectations and hope were a source of misery, because this did not happen.

But give you away I did. I walked you down the aisle although it wasn’t a church, handed you to your husband and the ceremony was over in about half an hour. It was at your reception that I was painfully aware that I had, in actual fact, been discarded. That you officially and legally had a new family now. It was during S’s speech that I realised where your loyalties lay. In the weeks leading up to your wedding, I would try and call you to arrange a dinner, a shared activity, something. Anything. Don’t call me. Text, you would say, irritated. S, in his speech, recounted how he would call you on weekends to wake you to go to work on the house and that you would always answer groggily, but eager to get going. I just need coffee first, you would say. S said you were like his daughter, an intrinsic part of his family and the way you picked up his phone calls was delightful. Of all that was said, that was the one thing that pierced my heart like a shard of jagged glass. Why do you take his calls, but not mine? The answer is, of course, because you don’t want to. You have new people now. I cried for days when I worked it out, and I went to a very dark, familiar place.

I didn’t contribute money to the reception, something that we also fought about when I was in Hanoi. I gave you money for the house because it was tangible, but when you asked me for money for the wedding, I said no because it was a waste. And I didn’t want to waste my money on what was a one-off show to assist you impress people who weren’t my people. You didn’t speak to me for months. Feeling obligated to make some sort of contribution, I asked you after the wedding if there was anything you still needed for your house. A dishwasher, you said. I agreed to buy it — before I knew how much it cost. I didn’t expect that the dishwasher you wanted would cost a few thousand dollars, and I said no because I couldn’t afford it. I had no job and it had cost me a fortune to come back to Australia. But S and A bought us our fridge, you said. And that was three grand. I said no because there were two of them and their entire clan and they could afford it. I said no because it was just me paying. You sent me information about a cheaper dishwasher. It was still more than a grand. I said no because now I was sure I was being manipulated. Then you asked your husband to try and convince me. I still said no, even though he tried to guilt me into handing over the cash and I was certain you were behind it. You haven’t spoken to me since. Was this the excuse you needed to cut me out of your life? I kept on stitching because I made you a promise.

Step 3: Frame the Pattern
(July 2021)

I wanted the frame to blend with the colours of your house, which I have only seen once: the day of your wedding where all the preparations took place. That was the day where I say what my money contributed to. Your colour scheme was tasteful, muted, neutral. Blacks, grays and soft whites from memory, although I can’t exactly recall because it was been so long, and I haven’t seen the wedding photos. A few weeks after your wedding and the tug-of-war over the dishwasher, I needed to find some peace, some distance, so I blocked you on social media. Was it the right thing to do? I think so, but it means I don’t have access to the details and minutiae of your life anymore. I’m ok with that because seeing what I’m not a part of is cruel. Like, you called the mother of one of your friends Mama. It’s a softer version of what you called me: Mother. You knew I would see it, be hurt by it.

I cried in Mama’s car the day after your wedding, because I didn’t understand properly that I had been discarded. The guilt ate away at me like acid — should I not be joyful? My daughter has just gotten married! Mama had picked me up because I didn’t have a car to get to the large afternoon tea with your new family and I wept just before I went inside. Mama couldn’t understand why I wasn’t ecstatic, even though I tried and failed to explain what I was feeling. Mama said that although she wasn’t blaming me, surely it was my fault. What had I done as a parent to make you feel this way about me? I played out different scenarios in my head, like old home movies, and came up with not very much. Of course we tussled when you were a child and a teenager, but I was strict but fair and consistent and I gave you love and power and agency over your own decisions. You wouldn’t have met and started your relationship with D, and sustained it, if I wasn’t. You seem to have forgotten that. Was I a perfect parent? No. Was I good enough? Yes. Was I loving? Absolutely. Did I love you? No question.

I pushed my tears and feelings way down and went to that afternoon tea because I wanted you to know that I supported you. There were lots of your people there, none of mine. I sat with people I barely knew, making polite conversation, listening to them saying they had dropped in to see you that morning and how lovely your house is and how glad they are that you are finally, legally, officially part of their family. Now for babies, please. I sat there, knowing that I didn’t belong, would never belong and that it was awkward for this family who now said that I, too, was part of the family by association because I was your mother. I haven’t heard from S & A since that day, despite me extending a dinner invitation to them before I left. I guess knowing how their daughter-in-law feels about her mother makes for an uncomfortable situation that they want to avoid because no one likes being wedged and taking sides. I am not their people, so why would they bother?

It took two months for the framer to finish framing your wedding gift. When I collected it, I cried because it was so beautiful. The frame I had chosen, a soft, textured silver, complemented the beading and sequins and didn’t overpower the stitching. It wasn’t cheap to do, not as much as a dishwasher, but it was worth it. I wrote a note: As promised, love Mum, and stuck it to the glass, just before it was wrapped. I wanted to write: This will last longer than a dishwasher. You don’t know how much I wanted to write that. I didn’t, though, because it may have made me feel better, but it would have done nothing to resurrect our relationship. I was hoping in those two months that it took to get the pattern framed that you would reach out, but it was blind hope, because it didn’t happen. Not for Mother’s Day. Not during “lockdowns” when you knew I was on my own. Not even for my birthday.

Step 4: Deliver the Pattern
(September 2021)

Not having a car, getting the pattern to you was challenging. I spent one afternoon traipsing from courier to courier trying to book a driver. The stupid fucking virus meant the courier wasn’t taking new customers. So I texted you on your work mobile to see if you would like to pick up your gift. No response. I thought of a number of scenarios: taking the bus and dropping it off at the house where you live that I’ve only visited once. But what if the gate was locked and I couldn’t get in? What if you were home, refused to see me and wouldn’t take my gift? I didn’t want to leave it on the street. So I booked an Uber and had the driver drop it off at your work. I figured that the receptionist would hand it to you, and you would like all the attention from your colleagues asking what it was, and be compelled to open it. I know you received it, because I called the receptionist at your work to make sure you got it. I don’t know what you did with it, because I heard nothing from you. Did you throw it away? Did you store it in another room or a cupboard, out of sight? Did you hang it? Or have you kept it for your children?

The reason I cried for days after your wedding because it was obvious to me that I had been discarded, thrown away. I no longer had a use because you have a new family now, one who makes you feel special. I make you feel accountable, and that’s not a feeling you’ve ever enjoyed. Being rejected by you is the ultimate betrayal and I went to a very dark place, and contemplated, fleetingly, ending my pain. This was familiar because this contemplation had happened in Hanoi, when I dated a man for ten months who I suspected of being a covert narcissist. He almost killed me, like you. I experienced months of psychological torment and emotional abuse where I thought I was going insane. I was love bombed, manipulated and gaslit, but I have no one to blame but myself because I ignored, downplayed, minimised and excused every red flag that was waved at me. Analysis in the aftermath, which took me to another dark place, showed me that I, unfortunately, have a high tolerance for dysfunctional relationships and had been primed for abuse in that relationship by my own mother. Peeling back this layer and dissecting it almost destroyed me, but it also liberated me. I understand everything. Now.

When you were teenager I told you to be careful about alcohol because genetically, on your father’s side and on mine, there was a predisposition for alcoholism. I didn’t want that life for you. What I didn’t factor in, didn’t even think about, was the other genetics that came into play. Your father, looking back, was probably a narcissist. My mother and her siblings all had psychological issues. My sister and my cousins have discussed this at length, and lamented the damage caused by alcoholism and probable borderline personality disorders in them, on us. You are twenty nine years old now, the age I was when I gave birth to you, and I have loved you every second of every one of those years. But I have noticed over time how much you are like my mother, and more recently, like that man who almost killed me in Hanoi. When you started dating D, you didn’t want him to know about your Indigenous heritage from your father’s side. Don’t tell him what I am, you said. In your twenty ninth year, I now see what was there, what was always there. I simply had to pay attention.

About the #12Essays2024 Challenge

I haven’t given my blog much love or attention over the last couple of years. I wasn’t in the headspace to write, at least not the personal essays I’m known for. But in the words of George Costanza: I’m back, baby. I’ve made a commitment to write one essay a month in 2024 — a slimmed down version of the #26Essays2017 challenge I set for myself in the first year I was in Vietnam. I will be experimenting with structure and form, so you might see some weird stuff. Please stick with me. Some essays will be short, and others will be split into parts because they are long. Maybe I’ll end up publishing them into a collection. Who knows?

Image credit: My photo. This is what I stitched for my daughter.