It has been two weeks since I’ve spoken to my children.
Two weeks of not catching up with their lives.
Two weeks of missing them so fiercely my body aches from sadness.
If we had spoken, they might have asked about their uncle’s bar mitzvah. They might have wondered what food their Bobby cooked, and if she made her famous family dish.
Except I wouldn’t be able to answer them.
In a cruel collaboration, I was made very unwelcome at my brother’s simcha. Perception, at least with my family, is more important than a daughter who would more than willingly look and dress the part so she could share a special day with her siblings.
Alone from my family, alone from my sons. A separation so vast it’s affecting my work and relationship with my daughter. I’m on edge, pushed there by two families who care more about a cult than a daughter or a mother.
If they wanted to make me feel cut off and awful, they’ve succeeded.