And You Thought Succession Was Ruthless

Happy birthday, Mom.

FROM THE ARCHIVES — April 21, 2001

4/21/2001

Dear Mom,

Can you believe four years have passed since that great trip to Europe for your 70th birthday? I don’t know about you, but I had the absolute best time. As some of those incredible memories flooded me, I thought, “Shit, why don’t we do this again?”

Then, I remembered that you and I - just you and I, no one else, Mom, not Alison, not Jamie, not Holly, just you and me, Mom - we had our incredible trip to New York last year, and I’m pretty sure I picked up the tab. Well, most of it. The truth is, I asked the girls is to come along. They were busy, Mom.

Busy.

What has this world come to when one’s own daughters - who have been on the receiving end of not just your love, but your totally unnecessary and unexpected “donations” - are too busy. “Busy,” Mom, that’s what they said. Honestly, I was hurt for you. “Busy.” Can you imagine such a thing? Who’s so busy that they can’t spend time with their mother? Not I, said the fly.

Oh well!

What’s important is that we had the best time in New York.

Busy?

Interesting, they are never too busy to go on those wonderful and totally unnecessary holiday vacations. They always find the time for that, don’t they? Oh well, in the big scheme of things, that’s not really important is it? Let’s remember, they do have their own busy lives, miles and miles away from you.

Oh my god, Mom, I just realized that not one of your daughters lives within a 1,000 miles of you. How emotionally devastating for you. Did I just say devastating? Let’s add shattering, crushing, and yes, even inhumane. My god, I’m crying just thinking about it.

Give me a moment to recompose myself.

35 minutes later.

Mom, I feel so terrible for you. I question whether I should have mentioned any of this. Is this what you need on your birthday? The incontrovertible proof that you, a wonderful, loving, generous mother of whom I can’t get enough, has been saddled with the three most miserable daughters in the world?

Is there a God, Mom? Boy, it makes you wonder.

So, I ask myself, Toddo, my good man, why bring up the harsh, brutal truth now? I’ll tell you why, Mom. I bring it up now because I think you think that I’m the bad one. That’s right, you know you do. Just because we had a teensy-weensy dispute over how to pronounce “ebullient.”

I said agree to disagree. You said, “No.” I’m not too small to say I might have been wrong. Anyway, water under the bridge.

Mom, I am the good one. They, THEY, Jamie, Holly, and Alison, are the bad ones. I choose to live near you because I love being near you.

By the way, I was the one who came up with the idea of all of us taking you to Europe for your 70th. It’s true. They didn’t want to do it. They tried to say they were busy. There’s that word again.

I talked them into it. I made it happen.

This part is especially hard for me to admit. I’m not perfect. Close, but not perfect. My flaws, Mom, for whatever reason God has chosen, are undetectable to me. But, I accept the idea, Mom, that yes, yes, I can be better. I’ll try my hardest. Even though I don’t how I can top our amazing New York trip, of which I conceived and paid for. Well, some of it. At least the dinners, for sure.

To be and do better. That’s my pledge to you. So please, please, please see my sisters - your daughters - as the wicked ones. Please see me as the good one.

Is that so much to ask?

Happy birthday,

Love,

Your favorite

P.S., This letter took a lot longer to write than I thought it would. I should get bonus points for that. Just saying.

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