Dear ____

Dear _____,

It’s been about 25 years since our relationship violently ruptured, but it’s marked me over the years in ways I’m embarrassed to admit. I’m coming to realize that the deepest wound came from not knowing what actually happened. I wish you’d told me. I realize now that you probably didn’t have the maturity to know you should, but also that you were probably parented not to. You were probably parented to just let me go, cut ties, and move on. I realize now that that probably wasn’t all you. I sometimes wonder if you’d parent your children differently based on the experience. I’ll never know, and I don’t need to.

I’ve tried to piece things together over the years. I carried relationship angst and fear for years because of this. Of course, I wanted to avoid the same minefield(s) in future relationships, so I was always trying to figure it out. Years later, this subject came up with one of our mutual friends’ mothers. I told her I had no idea what happened. She had insight. She asked me if ever there was any instance in which you’d confided in me about something and I had told my mom. Apparently one time there was a weekend trip that all our moms were on where my mom brought up the confided secret and asked your mom about it. Our friend’s mom said she watched your mother’s countenance change immediately, as if a wall had been immediately erected. And after that things seemed to change between our families.

A light came on. I remembered an issue you had with your health that you told me about once. We were around 13. We were so close, you were my best friend. I’ll just take a moment here to acknowledge that the degree of closeness–at least on my part–was definitely unhealthy. Regardless, that’s where we were at–or I was at. Anyway, I was so, so worried about you. I didn’t need to be, but I didn’t know that. I was so young; I had spun all kinds of scenarios out in my little mind. I was, in fact, so concerned one day that my mom found me sobbing in my room about it. I clearly remember sitting on my bed crying very hard about the situation. She asked me what was wrong, obviously concerned about me. I told her it was a secret, that I couldn’t tell her.

The way I remember it, she proceeded to explain to me that because she was my mother, I could tell her, and should. That I could tell my mother secrets. Basically, she convinced me that I didn’t need to keep my promise to you when it came to her, because parents were different, especially when it was something affecting me so deeply. She truly (erroneously) believed this. And I believed her. That’s how we were taught. Parents were everything in that homeschool culture. So I told her. I didn’t want to. I wish I hadn’t. And I to this day believe this was a parenting fail. 

I wish I’d had the opportunity to tell you what happened. I wish you’d loved me by confronting me about it. I know that is not really on you. We were too young and immature to have the skills to work through this kind of thing. You and I were parented differently, and I believe this whole situation was a failure of both sets of parents in various areas.

What should have happened is she could have asked me who/what it was about in very general terms. She could have talked to your mom. Your mom could have assured her that everything was fine without divulging what you were going through. It was a sensitive matter, I can only imagine how betraying that must have felt.

I can also see how, after the situation with ____ in which I opted to tell our parents what was going on, and you didn’t want to, you found me untrustworthy. (For the record, I stand by this particular decision to this day. What ____ confessed to us could have been life and death.)

We were parented differently. I remember my mom telling me that your mom had a philosophy of always siding with her children, even if they were wrong. My parents didn’t share that view. But, my parents should have respected my word and your privacy, and they didn’t. I wish we could have talked about it. I certainly know better now, I did not then. 

I still want to say to you: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told my mom that day. I am now a person that takes confidence very seriously, and I hate looking back on this moment.

I also want to acknowledge that this was not the only issue in our relationship. I was clingy. I was possessive. I wanted to be friends with all your new friends and I didn’t give you space. I copied you on things. I had no idea I was doing that, but I was always copying you. I understand now that I desperately wanted to please and measure up to your mom. I adored and respected her so much. I never did measure up, but I understand now as an adult that I was never going to be as beloved as her daughter! And you were. And that’s okay. I understand now at least some of how my issues must have impacted you. 

I’m sure you felt smothered and you wanted to grow and I was probably trying to hold you back. I had clued into some of this and was working actively on it, but the damage had been done. I’m so sorry. I see now the grace that came in us parting ways, who knows who either of us would have become. I just wish that the parting could have happened more gracefully. 

I wish we’d had this conversation 25 years ago. Or ever. I remember years later you came to apologize to me for your side of things. It was a blanket apology. Of course, I accepted it (still do!), but it didn’t really heal anything because we still never talked about what actually happened. I was just so eager to put the past behind us, and I didn’t have the maturity to know that I could have asked. Then you invited me to your bridal shower, your wedding, signaling wanting at least some level of relationship. We began to cross paths again because you were going to my parents’ church. When I wrote you again about everything, years later, it was because I wanted to actually heal. I didn’t necessarily want to be friends again, but as sisters in Christ, I wanted to heal and actually mend what had been broken. Not to go back to the way things were, but to restore rightness where brokenness still remained. I’m sure there’s way more to this story from your side than I could possibly remember, but you never asked me my perspective either.

I understand why you didn’t want to hash things out, saying it wasn’t needed on your end and that you didn’t trust me. You were operating on very different premises than I, and you didn’t know me anymore. You only knew me as untrustworthy. I’m sure that’s reductionist, but that’s what I could see.

Why am I writing this? All of this came flooding back to me last weekend as I was listening to music that we used to listen to and love together. It’s still great music! (They don’t make CCM like that anymore…). I’m about to embark on parenthood myself. I’m cleaning house. I needed to get out what I haven’t been permitted to say for 25 years:

This is what happened on my end. I’m sorry. I wish we had actually talked about it. I wish we’d both been parented differently. I loved you, I never wanted to hurt you, but I’m sorry that I did. And I forgive you. I forgive you for not knowing how to handle the hurt, and for the wounds you dealt me too.