My high school friend’s mother, Retta, died recently, and it brought up some difficult emotions for me because she was one of the kindest people I ever met and has influenced my parenting style more than anyone else, especially more than my own parents. She was 92, and her heart finally conked out, but she was one of those people for whom it was always going to be too soon, no matter if it was next year or 50 years from now.

I stayed with her down at their family’s Sea Isle City shore house while I worked at a nearby beach hotel for two summers in ‘96 and ‘97.  Nobody charged me rent; they only asked that I help Retta with chores and errands, but she quickly found out how entirely useless I was at washing things, vacuuming, and grocery shopping. I wasn’t a full-on freeloader, but it was clear to her and everyone else in her family that she may have been better off having a goat staying in her guest bedroom. Despite my indolence, every morning she’d bring me a coffee and an egg sandwich and set it on the nightstand for me. 

I couldn’t fly back east for the funeral on short notice, but I left my friend an overly emotional, poorly thought-out, embarrassing voicemail message that was actually cut off before I’d said everything I’d wanted to, apologized enough for not keeping in touch, and thanked her enough for those magical summers. 

He texted me the next day, said there was nothing to be embarrassed about with the voicemail, and that his mom always loved me no matter what.

A couple of days after her funeral, he sent a photo I’d never seen before of Retta, me, and my mother and father, all dressed up at an event. It was rare to ever see me in a suit and tie, so I assume it was a wedding or rehearsal dinner. My parents look so happy, glowing with celebratory ease in a way I’d forgotten existed. Retta is huddled between them. I’m making some strange pose with where I’m somehow smirking with my mouth open. Just a shocking amount of ebullience all around.

I’ve done so much work in 12-Step and with therapists who’ve both convinced me that something dark happened to me when I was younger, and that my upbringing was a major reason I was so shitty to people and so bullet-holed by trauma. But how do I square those diagnoses with moments like this one where we are all normal-looking and the love I needed from my parents appears properly tended?

No one who saw this photo would ever guess that one day me and that smiling tan guy in the glasses would try to choke each other to death in a drab Florida living with an ocean view. Or that my mother and I would drift further apart every year after this to the point where I’m convinced we’ll never truly know each other.

I’ve been a member of Adult Children of Alcoholics long enough to know that my parents did the best they could, but sometimes I’m also reminded that my memory is now warped, and that maybe there were more happy days than the dark ones that have taken over my timeline over the past decade of trying to become emotionally sober.

****

When my mother is in a good mood and cleaning out her dresser, she sends me photos like the one my friend sent me, ones she’ll find in albums, mostly ones from 1980s Christmases and Easters and summer pool parties. I’ve seen them all before, and many can trigger almost full recall of the entire day, even if that day was 40 years ago.

A couple of years ago, she sent me a photo of my dad and me standing under a tree in our front yard on the day of my First Holy Communion, and I swear to God, I could smell the lawn we were standing on. I could hear my mother ask my father, caustically, to duck down and hide behind me as much as possible, even though he was linebacker-sized back then. She wanted a “nice” photo of me in my blue church suit, but he was still cutting the grass in his OP cord shorts and his “Jamaica No Problem” T-shirt. I remember the heaviness of his hand on my shoulder, him gently telling my mother to “Hurry up!”, the grass that stuck to my Docksiders afterward, and the undue stress it caused.

But this most recent photo, the one where we’re all happy and probably happily drunk — nothing. I’m convinced that throughout my 20's there were more miserable days than joyful ones since I was always so broke and headed toward addiction at that time. So why did we love each other so effortlessly on this particular day?

And was this in the late 90’s while I was still living with them at home in Ambler? Or the early 2000s, when I became recently engaged and moved back to Philly, or a few months later, when I was recently unengaged and moved back to New York? Did I have a wet coke bag in my pocket that night, or did I stick to booze? Endless questions.

The photo reminded me of one of my favorite poems by George Bilgere called “Boomers,” which I think about constantly when I stumble upon any old non-digital photographs of my family.

I emailed George about "Boomers" to see if he thinks of it as often as I do. He said the exact photo — that big night at Ruggeri’s from so long ago — sits on a bookshelf in his living room. He sent over a digital copy of the faded, ancient-looking photo as proof. “That marriage was destined to blow apart, but they certainly looked happy that night,” he added.

I examine the photo my friend sent me—my Boomers—and see zero signs of the looming turmoil or my personal troubles, no great unraveling in any of our eyes. Quite the opposite. It’s almost as if I made up all my unhappiness.

****

I remember one awful night at Retta’s where I’d really taken it too far. I’d had several people over until the early-morning hours for an after-work party on her back porch, and it woke up her and the neighbors. I also think one of my random dirtbag guests broke something of importance to her, a glass table or maybe a lounge chair. We also left cigarette butts and beer bottles everywhere for her to clean up in the morning. 

When I finally woke up, I tried to sneak out the front and head back to work before Retta could see me, but she caught me and asked me to stay and talk before I left. She was really upset and told me I needed to be more considerate. She never threatened to throw me out, but our conversation left me feeling like a real piece of garbage. I could tell she was angry, frustrated, and maybe she finally felt a little taken advantage of. I was no longer being seen as a quirky, mostly harmless houseguest and close friend of her son’s — I was now someone who had fully disrupted the peace of her household. 

I thought I’d permanently damaged the relationship, and it was the first time I’d seriously considered that maybe it would be best if I spent the rest of the summer staying someplace else. I went to bed that night very embarrassed, drowning in shame. I hated that feeling, one that was so familiar to me. I wanted to leave her house, the state, the country, even, to move as far away from anyone else whose peace I could disrupt or whose house I could destroy. 

I didn’t know what to expect the next morning, if Retta and I would even speak or how I was supposed to interact with her and some of the other dozen or so family members staying there at the time. Or a better question: How would they interact with me? 

If I screwed up this badly in the house I grew up in with my parents, it would be all eggshells and anger the next day and possibly a week. I’d have to sit with the bad feelings at the silent dinner table and stay punished until my father decided to move on or take something important away from me. My electric guitar. Or the Metallica posters on my wall. My long hair.

But what I woke up to that morning in Retta’s house was different. There were no eggshells; there was no shame. She gently brushed my hair, and there was hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich on the nightstand, just like there always was. 

She never mentioned anything about our conversation, made any strict demands, or made me feel any less welcome — she’d somehow made me feel more like part of her family. I never knew forgiveness could come so quickly, or that love could continue without concessions and conditions. Or that a family could reconnect after a fuck-up without the constant specter of fear.

I recently re-read this Thich Nhat Hanh quote about how “the idea of happiness is the greatest obstacle to happiness,” and now I’m certain that’s where my mom and dad got into trouble. They were so focused on what other people thought about them — what people thought about me. That’s part of the reason my dad was always pushing business school on me, or golf lessons, or a Roth IRA. He believed those things would have made his life easier. My mom was pretty simple about what she wanted from me: she wanted me to keep my hair short. Sometimes, though, her expressing that hurt me the most.

And here’s where I screwed up: for far too long, my idea of happiness was having them not ashamed of me, or keeping them off my back, really. What a dumb waste of time.

Sometimes when my children make messes, or break appliances, or dump slime all over the bedroom, or blow out all the electricity in the kitchen with the sink hose, or pound on each other until someone cries, I get angry with them. Sometimes my voice gets louder and more severe-sounding — sometimes it’s my father’s voice coming out of me. 

But unlike him, I don’t let my anger interfere with love. I’m quick to hug and kiss and move on, usually within minutes. I never make any of my kids feel close to being discarded, or believe they should feel less loved because of their mistakes; they need to feel safe at home. 

I need to remember to extend that grace, patience, and safety to my children’s friends. Because it’s important to offer compassion to people we don’t share bloodlines with to be a decent human in a world that seems depressingly more rotten. 

I also have to teach my kids not to chase all those silly external things and that it’s important to try to extend love to everyone they come across in the world, not just the successful people, because chances are they’ll come across more dipshits than astronauts in this life.

They should remember more days when we’re all together — and remember that they will be happiest when they let go of what they think happiness looks like. They shouldn’t have to wait that long to figure that part out.

If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an “alcoholic,” that’s fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, and/or depression, come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome.

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