When my parents decided to move away, 40 years ago when I was in my 20’s, they wanted my husband and me to move into their house, take over payments of mortgage, taxes, etc., and continue providing my brother a place to live. We were unwilling because we were about ready to build our own home, but under continued pressure from them, gave in. We felt we were doing them a favor, they felt they were doing us a favor for the house was new and full of nice things. We began to haggle over details and fell out finally over the dishwasher. We had already given up our apartment and had to beg our landlords to allow us to stay. We did not speak, my parents and me, for several years.

I made the first overture. Over the years, we began spending holidays, etc., together. My parents never raised the issue and if I tried, stormed out. Since they would not address what I felt they had done to us, basically booting us out into the street, I was ready to forgive them but didn't, waiting for them to at least accept that something had gone wrong. They never did, and the relationship remained fraught, fragile, and superficial.

When she was 79, my mother’s health began to fail. Having no idea that her end was near, I still sensed how sick she was, and basically just let it all go and embraced her again. We spent the last year of her life, my parents and me and my brother, much closer than we had been, and I stayed close to my father after she died. Had I left it to my parents, had I not found it in my heart to forgive without strings, we would never have had that last year together, nor would I have been able to support my father so well after he lost my mother.