“Mom, could you trim your nails more often? They make you look… old.”
“Mom, maybe you should shower again. Sometimes there’s a strange smell.”
“Mom, those clothes don’t look good anymore. You look sloppy.”
I tried to adjust.
I bought new clothes. I started showering twice a day. I even avoided eating near her because she once complained that I chewed too loudly.
But the more I tried to please her, the worse things became.
One afternoon, while I was in the garden pruning the roses my husband had planted years ago, I overheard Rachel speaking on the phone with her sister Monica.
“I can’t stand living with her,” Rachel said. “She’s disgusting, Monica. The way she eats, coughs, walks… everything about old people makes me sick. But I need a place to stay until I find a job, so I’m just dealing with it for now.”
The pruning scissors slipped from my hand.
I stood there frozen.
My own daughter was speaking about me as if I were something revolting.
That night I confronted her calmly.
“I overheard your conversation,” I said quietly.
She laughed nervously.
“I was just venting, Mom. You know I love you.”
But nothing changed.