I was just reading a fic about Scott remembering his mother combing his hair (gorgeous fic – go read). I was typing a raving review for it when something struck me sideways – these kind of things sometimes do. The following isn’t relevant to anyone but me, really, but I thought I would record the moment anyway.

My parents split when I was six. My mother walked out with various reasonable reasons and left us kids (ages 6, 5 and 3 years) with my father. We had contact for about a year, but then she disappeared from our lives, for about ten years.

So I grew up minus a mother.

Now the thing that struck me was about that fic was the fond memories that Scott had of his mother. She died, mine left. He was older, I was younger. There are a bazillion differences, but the one thing that suddenly struck me was that I have no fond memories of my mother at all.

None.

Yes, I remember her brushing my hair. I hated it. She was rough and it pulled and hurt. There was the vague time when we found Christmas presents under our parent’s bed. There were trips all the way across town by bus to visit her parents. Perhaps hearing the clock tower in the centre of Adelaide play its tune could be considered a memory, but that had more to do with where we had to change buses than my mother.

I don’t know if it was my age, the act of my mother leaving and the dramas that followed, or my own issues (there are many, many issues) that have clouded any memories I may have had, but I can’t think of anything.

Totally random, I know, but it just struck me.

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