Under the guise of some trou­ble with her iPod, the old sec­ond gen­er­a­tion clunker that I gave her last Christmas, my mother calls me on Saturday, close to midnight.

I can hear the con­ges­tion in her nose. She’s been cry­ing. It gets lonely when you’re alone in the house on a Saturday night, the same house you’ve inhab­ited for the last 15 years of your life with your façade of a fam­ily, and the façade is torn down.

Our last phone-call didn’t end well. She wanted to know why we weren’t as close as other sons with their mothers.

How can we be close”, I told her, “You go crazy every time I tell you some­thing impor­tant. You’re sti­fling. Overprotective. Growing up, it made my life a night­mare.” For the first time in my life, I revealed a glimpse of how she had wronged me, not even bring­ing up the mem­o­ries of men­tal abuse I keep buried in my chest for times like this, like an ember ready to be stoked into a fire.

It’s because you’re my only son, and the only thing I have left now.” Saying these words, spark­ing a sud­den real­iza­tion, makes her sob more. She tells me that she wants to start over. It’s never too late. She wants to be stronger so she can sur­vive this divorce, and close to me so she’s isn’t left with­out an emo­tional bond.

I can only say that I’ll have to for­give her first. Up to then, she didn’t even know that there was any­thing to forgive.

Unfortunately, for­give­ness isn’t some­thing that’s in my power. I have no pity for her. Knowing how vul­ner­a­ble, weak, and depressed she is just a reminder of my own child­hood, and only time has a chance at edul­co­rat­ing the bit­ter taste in my mouth.

So she calls me on Saturday, pre­tend­ing to need some help with her iPod, to see if I’ve for­given her yet. If I ignore her, I become as ter­ri­ble a per­son as she was. I only wish I could believe that she didn’t deserve it.

But I can’t.