A few weeks before moving out of my parents’ house for college, I stumbled upon a grainy Polaroid of my mom in her 20s. I stared, dumbfounded, as two questions formed in my mind. First, who was this person? And second ― why didn’t I know her? The mom I knew threatened to divorce my dad frequently and required me to wear camisoles under shirts to cover my stomach.
We fought often about when I could hang out with friends, and where, and for how long. She also stayed meticulously up to date on my life by insisting I catalog every minute of it in a ritual I called Tell Me About Your Day. It went like this: “So, tell me about your day.
What happened in first period? Did you talk to Mr. Gallaher like I asked you to? What about the book report, did you turn it in? OK. What did you do in second period? Nothing? Come on, what topic are you learning? Did they assign homework? OK, I want to print the assignment description.
” As I grew older, this questioning felt like endless nagging at the end of a long day. I began approaching the conversations like interrogations to be endured. I didn’t appreciate that my mom wanted to be involved in my life.
Instead, I saw Tell Me About Your Day as part of a wider pattern in which she tried to control me. For instance, in middle school, when my mom overheard my friends’ parents using my chosen nickname, Jackie, she yelled, “Don’t call her that!” and lectured them on why the name was “trashy.” Similarly, she disapproved when I.