In my story there is a Yes Mom and a No Mom. 

Yes Mom taught me yes when I was six weeks old, saying yes to me after another mom had said no. It was a big yes, so big she didn’t even have to speak the words, but I knew in my bones that because of her first yes, I was not allowed to say no. 

So it was yes: yes, I will sit quietly and read while you rest after your hysterectomy; yes, I will wear my patent leather shoes that pinch when we see Annie at the Kennedy Center; yes, I will stop fighting with my brother even though he started it. 

No Mom taught me no from conception, repeated the word to others before ever uttering it directly to me. No, I wear a gold wedding band just as cover. No, I won’t keep her; she would be labeled a bastard. No, I won’t let my married sister raise her. 

The refrain of nos fed me in utero, teaching me how to absorb the word, absorb the feeling, until I could hear it unmuffled by amniotic fluid. No, you aren’t coming with me when I leave the hospital. No, I can’t hold you; stop crying. No, we won’t be allowed to see one another, know one another.

With Yes Mom, the stakes grew as I did. Yes, I’m sure I did something to make my brother stab me. Yes, we’re old enough to be left alone without a babysitter. Yes, I promise never to run away again when you aren’t home.

Some yesses were daily. Yes, I will start dinner while you tutor your embassy students. Yes, I will do all my homework so I don’t land in detention again. Other yesses were one-offs. Yes, I will take your contacts out because you drank too much at the wedding. Yes, I’m sure you’re right that kids claiming sexual abuse only want attention.

Over the years the yesses snaked through my body like the bittersweet vine in the backyard, choking out my spirit just like the invasive weed choked out Yes Mom’s azalea bushes until they were nothing more than petals and dust.

I imagined what No Mom would have said to me in my formative years. No, you shouldn’t wish I had aborted you. No, you wouldn’t have been better off with me no matter how poor we were. No, you needed two married parents above all else.

Maybe that explains why, when I found her 40 years after she left me in that hospital, I repeated the word she taught me before I even knew what words were. No, I’m not able to fly down to meet you right now. No, I’m not ready for you to see your grandchildren. No, I’m no longer comfortable talking on the phone; let’s stick to email. My crescendo of nos became louder and louder, until the tinkling of ice cubes in her glass, the slurred words in her vehement assertion that she made the right choice, the angry letter she mailed but couldn’t remember writing, added up to my biggest no. No, I’m not plugging the infant-sized void in your life.

Necessity rather than strength changed some of my answers to Yes Mom as I grew into adulthood and our caregiver roles reversed, though I was determined to be the better one at it. No, I’m not your friend Patty; I’m your daughter. No, it’s not safe for you to live alone now that Dad’s gone. No, you can’t move in with me and my kids, but I will find a place for you nearby.

Eventually we hit our final set of yesses: yes, doctor, I will sign the Do Not Resuscitate Order; yes, nurse, give her the morphine; and finally, yes, Mom, it’s okay if you go now.

I wonder how much conditioning rather than free will flavored these two maternal relationships, trained to say yes to one and no to the other. Was I just parroting back the first answers they ever gave me? How fair was that to them and, by extension, to myself, knowing full well that sometimes I should have said no to Yes Mom to protect my soul and my time, that sometimes No Mom deserved better than a knee-jerk refusal rooted in my own fear. 

Possibility dangles like a wispy cloud, perhaps pointless or foolish to try to grasp, but the story isn’t over yet for me and No Mom. Time offers me a chance if I am strong enough, strong enough to make myself ask something of her, ask something of her and wait for a different answer. And perhaps one day my own heart will soften enough that I will disremember that very first no, leading not necessarily to yes, but to maybe.