I got a call from my mother today. The only thing that makes that anywhere near remarkable is that we have been estranged for twenty years.

I would describe my mother as verbally and emotionally abusive, something she would dispute. She would say that I’m overly emotional, dramatic, prone to exaggeration or making things up. But I can quote her verbatim, and she’s made a few slips in front of extended family members. There’s also that family portrait, in which I am missing, that hung proudly in her foyer. It was taken during my sophomore year of college, when we were on good terms (and I was only an hour away). In it is my mother, my brother and stepfather, smiling carefree. I entitled it “Her Perfect Family.” It was a joke I was comfortable with, but anyone else who spied that photo thought it was particularly odd. Who takes a family portrait without the full family? My mother, of course.

Our relationship became rocky when I was 15. The first time I excused her from my life, I was 25. I had a good therapist who finally told me, “You don’t have to have a relationship with you mother if you don’t want to.” That was flabbergasting and freeing. I told her I thought the entire point of therapy was to fix me so I could have a relationship with someone who was broken. My therapist assured me that I could indeed be a whole, happy and healthy person (possibly whole-er, happier and healthier) without my mother, or family, in my life. I did not have to subject myself to additional pain if there was no payoff. And there wasn’t.

Our first separation lasted about five years. Finally, she wrote a letter apologizing and asked if we could meet. I hosted her for lunch in my home and listened. There were hollow apologies, but I didn’t really expect much more. I set my parameters and, tentatively, started going to family dinners, spent some holiday time with them, too. But her good behavior lasted only briefly. She has a hard time controlling her venom.

I didn’t expect her to change. I knew that was something she was not capable. But I had learned boundaries and told her that, if she couldn’t be nice, if she wouldn’t be respectful, I expected to at least receive the same courtesy she’d bestow on a stranger in her home. Nothing more, but nothing less. She couldn’t quite manage that. She knew the buttons to push and where the wounds were still tender.

The incident that caused me to end my relationship with my mother (and the rest of my family because, she was a control freak and they were a package deal) wasn’t a huge fight. All things considered, it was quite benign.

Those who understand abuse know that it is typically passed down. My mother learned it from hers. My grandmother could be awful.

I had been invited for a visit. I got on the freeway heading north and sat in weekend traffic to get there. My mother, stepfather, grandmother and I were sitting in the yard chatting. It was a lovely afternoon. For some reason, my mother and stepfather were enthused, engaging me in conversation. They were talking over and ignoring my grandmother. They weren’t intentionally being rude, just oddly happy to have me there.

I watched my grandmother get more and more irritated. I knew the end result would not be good. Now, for anyone thinking that if my grandmother was being ignored by my parents, they would be on the receiving end of her ire, clearly didn’t know my grandmother. You see, I was getting the attention; I would pay the price. She started with what I like to call the “Remember Whens,” which are stories that are meant to be painful or—better yet—embarrassing to me.

On she went, giggling as she told stories about unhappy times. While she was telling her stories, my parents sat mute. I let my grandmother go on just to see if either of my parents would step in to stop her, change the subject or defend me. But that didn’t happen. I didn’t get upset. I simply smiled and said, “Well, I have to go now.” I got up, kissed each of them on the cheek as I said goodbye and, as I drove down the long driveway, I decided that would be the last time I would be in their presence. They were not kind people. They were not my kind of people.

It took a while for them to get the hint. Finally, the reality set in. But my mother would not be bested.

When my family moved to Oregon, she didn’t tell me. I found out from another relative. And that’s same way I found out I was cut out of my grandparents’ trust (my mother was the executrix) and the same way I found out that my grandmother died.

I wasn’t told when my stepfather passed away, either. I wasn’t surprised that I was left out of the obituary. After all, I was the one who terminated the relationship with my family. What I did find shocking was the fact that she erased the three children he’d had in his first marriage. Only my brother, his stepson, was mentioned as his surviving child. Her perfect family. For the record, my mother calls herself a Christian, having found Jesus shortly after my brother did in college. Did his children get a call?

I’ve had the same cell phone number since the beginning of time. It’s a number I rarely give out, so you really have to know me to get it (I have a Google Voice number I’m more generous with). Thus, if you have my original cell phone number, you can still reach me. I didn’t recognize the number when the phone rang, but I knew the city was hers. I let it go to voicemail.

“Hi, Sandra. It’s your mother. I hope my call is not upsetting to you but I wanted to know if you’d like some photos. I have kept photos for you all these years and I’d be happy to mail them to you. If you would like them, you can let me know by text, if you’d like, if you’d prefer. And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that you do not want them. Okay. Well, just know I think of you every day and I hope that you are well. Thank you. Bye.”

A few hours later, I texted her my mailing address. She typed back, “Thank you.”

There are many things of mine she’s kept. Things that she has lied about having. Things she keeps to have some semblance of control over me. Long ago, I let them go. I’ve learned not to be too sentimental. It was my mistake to trust her. I knew better than that. But you are expected to forgive. You’re encouraged to leave room for people to change. Sadly, some just can’t. Or won’t.

I’ll be curious to see what was sent, or if anything is. It wouldn’t be out of character for her to promise something and then take it back. It’s always my fault when that happens. It’s as if there’s a certain secret task I’m supposed to do and, if I don’t do it—or don’t do it well enough—there’s consequence. The promise evaporates.

I suspect this won’t be the last call. I have a feeling there will be more texts. I don’t want to engage with her, though. There’s no conversation to be had. No apologies desired. The door has closed on that. There’s no resentment, sadness or anger, just an understanding of our history. And that’s something I’d rather not repeat.

A stranger called me today. Hers was a voice that was no longer familiar. It’s a peculiar feeling to not recognize someone with whom you share DNA and to feel more complete in her absence. I hope she is happy. I hope she is well. I hope she has found peace.

I have.