A beautiful mysterious name. One that haunts me (and more likely my husband) on a regular basis.
It is the name of my husband’s mother.
A woman he has not seen or heard from in almost 30 years.
She is gone. A deep dark hole in his history and in his heart. I see it all the time under the surface of that sweet loving face. The sadness. The lack of knowing what the unconditional love of your mother feels like. It is heart-wrenching for me – I cannot even bear to imagine what it must feel like for him.
I want to fill that hole. Fill it up with love and happiness and laughter and joy. Give him the family and stability that he never had. I want to be all that he needs but I cannot. I could never fill that void. No matter how hard I tried or what I used. Nothing can replace what he has lost. Not even Heidi Helga Rose.
I do want to find her. I want to finish his story for him. Fill in the questions and spaces in his memories that have been lost to time or hidden away because they were too painful to remember. I want to put all of that in a neat little book with all the answers he craves. But that is not fair, nor will it suffice. I still want to try. What if it did solve some of the mystery or healed some of the pain? It would be worth it just to take away the smallest crease of sadness from his eyes.
I have images, pictures, stories, a partial “ancestry.com” family tree. I have conflicting memories from him and his father and an old classmate or two. I have just a scratch of the surface of the information I would need to build the story of a woman’s entire life. One where she would leave her only son and travel abroad thousands of miles back to her home country, never to be heard from again. Something much bigger than what I have would have to make up her story. It has to. There has to be an explanation larger than what I’ve got. Not just for him but for me as well.