Caring between the lines

This article is part of the CBC/QWF featured columnist program.

I send the photo to my mother to provoke her.

It's a selfie with my son from Jean-Talon Market in Montreal. We're masked and holding each other steady with fresh flowers in hand. Cloth bags of rhubarb stalks hang over our shoulders.

We are not like you, it says.

It's summer 2020, early in the pandemic. Masks aren't common on children yet. Many still believe a redacted study claiming that masks cut off a child's oxygen supply, a belief my mother repeats in emails she sends me from across the country. I eventually archive them unread. 

Scarred by the authoritarianism of her upbringing east of the Berlin Wall, she rejects government directives about COVID-19, while I turn to science for guidance on how we can protect each other.

"You are being unreasonable," I relentlessly push back. "Listen to me."

My brusque tone is not that of a dutiful daughter. Sometimes the 'How are you?' I want to write, but can't, echoes in my head. Even such a simple phrase seems like too much. 

Her emails, at least the subject lines which I read, become dire. I'm outraged about the municipal government; remember, even if you chose not to speak to me, I still love you; found a CDC pub with details of ingredients in vaccines; important read about masks; stop stressing, my angel. 

All I can read is what's between the lines.

How does a child contend with a history she cannot fully understand? We write our own narratives of survival.

Unrelenting in my attempt to reason with her perspective, I stop communicating. I'm not yet adult enough to admit that I'm also responsible for the chasm between us.

In summer 2021, I break the silence with news of my pregnancy. I send my mother a selfie standing outside the Christophe-Colomb vaccination centre with my second trimester belly. There is no caption or subject line. It's a passive-aggressive olive branch.

She doesn't take the bait, instead replies with heartfelt exclamatory words. Her approval is like the afternoon sun in my kitchen — its warm glow gently urges me to keep its path uncluttered.