This past Valentine’s Day I spent the blissful, yet snowy day, in Greenwich Village at a bar my close friend bartends at. After being begged for more than a week to keep her company on Cupid’s day I finally decided to go, knowing I had no better plans away. After downing three patron margaritas and receiving beautiful roses from an older gentlemen, I started a conversation with this women who struck me as very interesting.

We began talking about her oldest daughter who is interested in journalism but finds herself lost within her writing. I willingly gave her my information, intrigued to learn more about her and her family, happy to help her as best as I could. Sylvia must have found me just as interesting because before I knew it we were four drinks in and going deeper into our now three hour conversation. It suddenly struck me, I found Sylvia so comforting, so loving and so trusting because I saw my mother inside of Sylvia or what use to be my mother.

For years, my mother and I have constantly relied on one another for friendship and advice after her dramatic breakup with my stepfather. My mother was the strongest woman I had ever laid eyes on. People normally mistake her for being gay due to her rough and cold personality however, after their breakup and strange make up, I saw a different side of my mother I saw her weakness. Every single rule my mother taught and raised me on she had broken to be back with my stepfather and it killed me. As time went on and continues to go on it hurts me to know my mother will never let my stepfather go and to sit across from a complete stranger and see what use to be my mother through her shocked me.

A conversation that was based on me helping a mother’s daughter find herself through writing turned into this women giving me the advice I’ve longed to hear for years. I spoke on my mother’s situation as if it were someone else too embarrassed to admit to someone that my own mother would put herself through all of that. She smiled as I spoke on the situation and even stopped me when some of the events seemed similar to events in her life.  After about an hour of talking about my mother’s situation Sylvia looked at me and grabbed my hands. I was surprised but didn’t stop her “You have to let go of the things you cannot control”. As Sylvia said that my heart filled with nothingness, I immediately felt stupid. My mother had forgave my stepfather a long time ago and I didn’t understand why I could not. They had moved on, even gone on vacation while I’d still frown my face at the mistakes he still continues to make that she carelessly looks over.

I never felt embarrassed, nor mad at Sylvia’s advice only lost in my emotions. I instantly began to rethink my past relationships. Had my mother gave me the right advice, or had she gave me the advice she wish she had taken? Would I still be with someone from my past if I had forgiven as much as my mother had? Maybe the issue was me and I’m just unrealistic to relationship issues? In the blink of an eye I was in the dimmed light, unisex bathroom of a Mexican bar in Greenwich crying about my mother who is too afraid, too scared or just too lazy to leave my stepfather. As I began to wipe my eyes and get a hold of myself I began to let go of the things I can’t control…