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When your mother dies, you no longer wish for the courage to confront her about incidents in the past that you’ve never understood or harbored anger over for years and years. These never-dare-uttered indictments become moot:
You never went to a single one of my baseball games.

I worked 50 hours a week as a junior and senior in high school and you never said a word.

The concept of college was never mentioned once in our home.

Instead, these angry indictments transform into endless lists of questions that you suddenly realize will never be answered:

Why didn’t you ever go to any of my baseball games? Or track meets? Did you even know that I was a pole vaulter?

Why did you let me stay out until midnight on school nights, managing a fast food restaurant 45 minutes from home?

Why didn’t you ever even talk to me about the possibility of college?