The Times She Wasn't There

What I remember about my mother is mostly when she was gone.

Photo of mom when she was early 20's.

Honestly, I don’t have too many memories of my mom. Not the kind I wish I had. I remember a few visits—times she’d come around to Grandma and Papa’s two-story house on the rez. I never wanted her to leave. But she always did.

My earliest memories of her aren’t of time spent together, but of being left behind.

I remember being about eight years old, left alone in one of her houses. It was winter. Dark outside. My baby sister was crying in the playpen, and I just sat there crying with her—scared and unsure of when someone would come back. My mom had said she was just going out for a bit, that she’d be right back. So I waited. And waited. Alone.

There was another time she visited me at my grandparents' place. She was getting ready to leave, and I remember running to her, not wanting her to go. She pulled away, saying she was sick and didn’t want to get me sick. But I didn’t care—I just wanted to be near her. Later that week, I got so sick I was hallucinating. I barely left my bunkbed, sweating it out while Grandma cared for me.

After we moved to our one-level house when I was around ten, there was another visit. I stayed with my mom, and she left me with my two younger sisters—for days. A storm hit, and I was terrified. I hid under a table in the basement, convinced a tornado was coming. There was no one to tell me otherwise.

And then there was Grimshaw.

She left again—this time to go to Manning with a friend to get her boyfriend. I was alone in the house. It was dark. I sat crying with the phone in my hand and ended up calling 911. But I got scared and hung up. When they called back, I lied and said it was a mistake. I must’ve fallen asleep eventually, because when I woke up, she was back—with her boyfriend.

I don’t have memories of my mom at my birthdays. I don’t remember her being there for Christmas. And as much as I wish I could say those moments existed, I don’t think they did.

There are long stretches of my childhood where she just wasn’t part of it - I have more memories with my dad.

And when she was around in those early years, she always seemed to be leaving again—or caught up in her own life, her boyfriends, her plans. I was left to take care of myself. Left to take care of my sisters.

That was my reality.

It’s hard to write these memories. But I carry them with me. Not out of bitterness—but because this is my truth. And telling it is a part of reclaiming what was lost.