Robbed.
Healthy relationships act as mirrors, but not the rose-colored or intricately designed mosaic ones you’d expect. Not the antique handheld mirrors adorned with delicate, eclectic designs. No, these mirrors are heavy-duty, full-length, and brutally honest. They expose our unique essence while simultaneously revealing the flaws we’d rather keep hidden. I had never been in a relationship long enough to understand this concept—until now. In this particular reflection, I’m staring at someone who feels robbed.
Being in a relationship with someone surrounded by a close-knit family—full of aunts, uncles, and cousins—reminds me of what I don’t have. Cousins? Yes, I have those. But since their parents, my aunts and uncles, have all passed away, it’s as if those cousins exist more in name than in presence. When an entire generation disappears, it leaves a gaping hole in the family tree. Maybe this void should have pulled us closer, compelled us to keep our traditions alive while creating new memories, but it didn’t. Instead, we’ve accepted the absence, glossed over the loss, and unconsciously decided to ignore it.
I didn’t notice how stark this difference was until recently. Hearing my partner laugh, gossip, and argue with his aunts and uncles seemed so normal—something I didn’t even think about, until I did. It hit me. He can experience those conversations anytime: a quick phone call, a casual text, or even while scrolling social media. My complicated relationship with it always reminds me that my aunts and uncles were gone long before it even existed. I wonder what profile pictures they’d choose or the kind of posts they’d share. Would they upload selfies together or post updates about their lives? What funny meaningless memes would they choose to share? While my partner can scroll through his feed and see them smiling back at him, I never will. It’s a simple privilege I’ll never experience, forever out of reach for me.
I often joke about wishing my aunt could pester me with CashApp requests for beer while I raid her closet for vintage pieces during visits to Arizona. I think about my Uncle Ricky, whose life was cut short by AIDS in the ’90s, and how much I wish he could have visited me in Atlanta. These seemingly shallow what-ifs and I-wish scenarios mask a heavier truth: a deeper, relentless ache that steals from me every chance it gets. It’s the feeling of being robbed of the essence of womanhood—because my mother was stolen from me.
How do other women learn to navigate life’s complexities with their mothers? Why do I feel as though something vital is missing in my femininity and my ability to nurture? How do other girls instinctively know how to handle (literally insert anything here)? My mind overflows with questions. But the most persistent one is this: What are the magical, mystical things other girls learned—or are still learning—from their moms?
Despite the loss of my mother, my aunt, and my uncles, I’ve been blessed with profound influences that have shaped me—especially my father, to whom I’m endlessly grateful. But two truths can coexist: I can be deeply grateful, surrounded by love, and still feel profoundly robbed.
