My mother is Italian.

And if you have an Italian mother you know exactly how this goes.

One evening she asked me, in Italian of course:

“What the hell did you put on the Facebook?”

To my relief she doesn’t read English.

So I told her to learn it if she wanted to find out.

Felt brave.

Error.

My sister jumped in just before my mother could lunge at my throat.

“It’s a personal essay,” she said.

My mother: “A what? What do you need to speak about that is personal on the Facebook?”

Little nine year old me: “Nothing. Just stuff for personal growth.”

I said growth and braced for impact.

Instead she made a face that said everything.

Why the hell do you need to put that in writing.

That condescending face punched my heart.

And just like that I was nine years old again. Too scared to defend myself. Too tired to explain. Too resigned to even try.

Part of me was relieved she doesn’t read English.

Part of me was sad she isn’t even curious enough to want to.

I wanted to tell her how liberating this adventure has been.

I wanted her support. Her curiosity. Her pride.

Hoping for a loving mother.

Wishing for her support.

Longing for her acceptance.

Instead I was just relieved she dropped the subject.

Phew.

She gave me the inspiration to write this.

Thank goodness she doesn’t read English.