Page 60 of The Me I Left Behind

Maxhadprovided for them—gave her enough money every month to meet their needs. Apparently, his company had done well, although he never shared exactly what he was worth, or how much money he made. All of that business detail, he kept to himself.

Plus, his family suffered from generational wealth.

Suffered.Yes. Max’s family was dysfunctional in ways her own family had never dreamed.

Yet, she’d been an eager participant because he met her needs, too. Checked all the boxes—security, financial and otherwise, and a sense of feeling safe, a sense of belonging.

Physically. Sexually.

Even if she wasn’t. Safe.

Emotionally. Physically.

How had she totally misinterpreted what Max had done for her? How had she allowed him to control her life, their lives, in the way he had?

It reallyismy fault.Isn’t it?She’d allowed Max’s shit to happen.

And for what? Security? Money? A beautiful home? Private schools?

Love.

She’d done it all—endured it all—for love. Hadn’t she?

At least in the beginning.

She just wished she hadn’t lost herself somewhere along the way—and understood why she’d let it happen. Why was it okay to give over her life to Max? Had she grown tired, worn down, and caved to his demands? Or did she just get lazy and accept the life he allowed her to live?

Eleven

The day Maggie’s mother threw her brother’s piggy bank against the wall, shattering the glass and sending pennies flying, was the day she realized her mother was crazy.

Maggie actually remembered thinking those words. She was five years old. Does a five-year-old know what the word crazy means? She couldn’t be sure.

But to this day, she remembered thinking it.

My mother is crazy.

And it wouldn’t be the last time she thought it.

Looking back, she realized her mother had various stressors in her life. She was unhappy in her marriage and had fought depression for years. She’d endured a traumatic childhood, mostly in her earlier years, when her mother, Maggie’s grandmother, had abandoned the family. This left her and two younger siblings under the care of an alcoholic father.

The odds were stacked against her. She had no positive parental role models growing up.

There was more.

Maggie was certain her mother had affairs. Her father, too, which only heightened the tension between them. Their all-night fights were not her favorite lullabies. There was a time when hermom became very thin, and everyone was sure she was anorexic—or taking pills.

But the worse thing—the very worse—was how she could cut you to your core, take you to your knees, with her words. And in doing so, made you feel like the worse piece of shit ever.

Maggie had to wonder how her mother’s madness had affected her own life.

She’d attempted therapy for a while, to cope with the notion of the maternal control Maggie permanently felt, her mother’s disapproval of everything she did, the choices she made—the fact that even her own basic instinct told her she needed her mother’s approval for everything, even though she knew disapproval was more than likely forthcoming.

Even though her parents now lived in California, Maggie still felt the emotional vise grip.

Once, when Maggie shared in conversation—hoping to get some motherly advice—that she was concerned how Max disciplined the kids, the words flew. They’d argued loud and long, even dragging her father into the fight. Her mom shouted she should be happy for her situation, that Max had money, that he provided well for them all, and then finally, that she should justshut the fuck upand quit complaining.

She wasn’t complaining. She was asking for advice.