“Yes, you did,” Alexis yelled. “Not with words, but with those looks, those sighs, always making me feel guilty for wanting to have my own life.”
Dr. Laura raised her hand.
“Sophia, you will have a chance to respond. Alexis, continue.”
My daughter wiped a tear that insisted on falling.
“When we received my father’s inheritance, it was the first time in my life I had any money, any chance to do something for myself, to build something. And of course, my mom was there with that disapproving look, thinking I was going to waste it all.”
“I never said that,” I started.
“You didn’t have to,” Alexis exploded. “It was written all over your face. And when we had the idea for the inn, she didn’t even like it. She kept up her attitude of, ‘I’m supporting this, but I actually think it’s a terrible idea.’”
George put his hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her. She took a deep breath before continuing.
“We didn’t trick you with the house papers. We explained everything. You were the one who didn’t understand because you never cared about these practical things.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. But Dr. Laura shot me a warning look.
“And yes,” Alexis continued, her voice growing quieter, “I said that thing about the nursing home and the paddock, but it was in the heat of the moment. I was stressed. You were always complaining about everything, getting in the guests’ way.”
“Getting in the way?” I couldn’t help myself. “I was working like a slave in my own house.”
“Your house?” Alexis stood up from the sofa. “That’s the point. You never accepted that the house was ours, too. That we had the right to make changes, to run our business without you controlling everything.”
“Enough.”
Dr. Laura’s voice boomed in the room. We both fell silent immediately. The therapist looked at us sternly.
“I know there’s a lot of suppressed emotion here, but we’re going to do the following. Each of you is going to take five deep breaths now.”
We obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The air went in and out of my lungs, but my heart was still racing.
“Better,” said Dr. Laura. “Now, we’re going to try something different. Sophia, I want you to repeat back to Alexis what you just heard—not what you believe, not your interpretation, just what she said.”
I looked at my daughter, then at the therapist.
“She said she always felt suffocated by me, that I made her feel guilty for wanting to have her own life. She said that I disapproved of George from the beginning, and that when they wanted to build the inn, I didn’t truly support her.” I paused, swallowing. “And that she doesn’t believe she tricked me with the house papers.”
Alexis looked at me, surprised. Maybe she expected me to twist her words, but I had genuinely listened.
“Alexis,” the therapist turned to her, “now you repeat what your mother said.”
My daughter hesitated, then mumbled,
“She said she raised me alone, that she made sacrifices, and that on the day of the ultimatum, it hurt her very much.”
“Continue,” Dr. Laura insisted.
“She said something died inside her when I said that,” Alexis’s voice was softer now, “and that she had to choose between continuing to be trampled on or fighting for respect.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the therapist said something that would change the course of everything.
“You are both right and you are both wrong.”
Dr. Laura’s words hung in the air like a revelation neither of us expected. I looked at her, confused, and from the reflection I saw, Alexis had the same expression.
“How are we right and wrong?” I asked.
The therapist leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands.
“Because the truth is rarely absolute in family conflicts. Sophia, you are right that you were treated with disrespect, that your daughter crossed unacceptable boundaries. What she said about the nursing home and the paddock was cruel, and no context justifies that level of dehumanization.”
I felt a validation I hadn’t expected, and new tears threatened to fall. But Dr. Laura continued, turning to me.
“You also need to recognize that you may have been suffocating at times. That your love, however genuine, may have become an emotional prison for Alexis.”
“I never meant to—”
“I know you didn’t,” she interrupted gently. “No loving mother means to, but intention and outcome are not always the same.”
Then she turned to Alexis.
“And you, young lady, are right that you had the right to grow up, to have your own life, to make your own decisions. But you are completely wrong in how you handled it. Instead of setting healthy boundaries, of talking openly with your mother about your needs, you allowed resentment to fester until it turned into cruelty.”
Alexis lowered her gaze.
“And worse,” Dr. Laura continued, her voice becoming firmer, “you used the love your mother had for you as a weapon against her. You knew she would sign those papers because she trusted you. You may not have consciously planned to trick her, but deep down you knew you were taking advantage of the situation.”
“I didn’t…” Alexis tried to protest, but her voice failed.
“And when she started questioning you, when she got in your way, you didn’t have the courage to confront her honestly. Instead, you humiliated her in a way you knew would destroy her.”
The silence that followed was heavy with truths unspoken for so long. George shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, probably regretting agreeing to this therapy.
“The problem with the two of you,” Dr. Laura concluded, “is that you never learned to be adult mother and daughter. Sophia, you remained stuck in the role of the protective mother of a child who grew up a long time ago. And Alexis, you remained stuck in the role of the resentful daughter who never had the courage to simply say, ‘Mom, I love you, but I need space.’”
I looked at my hands—those hands that had worked so hard, that had held Alexis as a baby, that had sewn her clothes, that had been injured to give her a better life. And I wondered, was Dr. Laura right? Had I been suffocating?
“I want to suggest an exercise,” the therapist said, picking up two sheets of paper and two pens. “Each of you is going to write a letter to the other. But it’s not a normal letter. It’s a letter from the other person’s point of view.”
“How?” Alexis asked.
“Sophia, you are going to write to Alexis telling her what it was like to grow up with you as a mother. And Alexis, you are going to write as if you were Sophia, telling what it was like to raise a daughter alone and then be treated that way. This is uncomfortable—” she corrected herself when Alexis muttered “ridiculous”—“but necessary. And you have fifteen minutes. You may begin.”
I took the pen with trembling fingers. Write from Alexis’s point of view. How could I do that? But I started, letting the words flow without thinking too much.
“I grew up knowing my mother loved me. But that love always came with a weight. She sacrificed so much that I felt like I owed her my entire life. Every choice I made felt like a betrayal when it wasn’t the one she wanted for me. I love her, but sometimes I just wanted to be free to make mistakes without feeling like I was hurting her.”
I stopped, feeling the tears return. It was too painful to see things from her perspective, to imagine that my love could have been a burden.
When the fifteen minutes were up, Dr. Laura asked us to read aloud. I read first, my voice breaking in several places. When I finished, I looked at Alexis. She was crying silently.
“Your turn,” the therapist said gently to my daughter.
Alexis wiped her tears and began to read with a choked voice.
“I worked until my bones ached to give her everything I never had. I watched her grow up and thought it was all worth it. I never expected gratitude, just love. But when she kicked me out of the house I built, I felt like everything I did meant nothing. I felt like I meant nothing.”
She stopped, unable to continue. Tears were falling freely now, soaking the paper. George put his arm around her, trying to comfort her.
“Do you see?” Dr. Laura asked softly. “You both managed to understand, even if only for a moment, the other’s point of view. That is empathy, and empathy is the first step toward healing.”
The session ended shortly after. We left the office emotionally drained. Alexis and George went one way, I went another, but before we completely separated, my daughter turned around.
“Mom,” she said, her voice raw from crying, “I… I need to think about all of this.”
“Me too,” I replied.
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a reconciliation. But it was something—a small opening, even if just a crack.
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