I saw her again today, the other woman in my life.
I was sharing family secrets with my daughter
when I heard the other woman’s voice                                                      
repeating my words, mocking me, taunting me,
daring me to deny her presence once again.

The first time I saw her, I turned away.
“She’s not real,” I told myself.
Just the imagination of a middle-aged wife and mother.
But then I saw her again in the dress shop,
checking prices first, sizes second.

“Go away,” I ordered. “You’re not welcomed here.”
After all, I know who I am, what I like,
and how best to get through the day.
She laughed and said, “Get used to it, honey.
I’m here to stay.”

With each passing year her intrusions continued,
less subtle, more frequent,
until at last, I grew weary
of fighting her inevitable presence.
Her influence, I could no longer deny.

More and more her mannerisms seep inside of me.
Qualities I once ridiculed now demand my belated respect.
So in graceful defeat, I wrap myself in her cloak,
letting her wisdom and memories merge with my own
until they are one.

Yes, I saw her again today,
the other woman in my life.
I saw my mother . . . in me.

The photo above is of my parents, Betty and Charlie, in 1947. She passed away in 2002, but the older I get, the more I see her in my mannerisms and now, in my daughter’s.

Hope you had a wonderful Mother’s Day and thanks for stopping by.

Deborah

P.S. My new romantic-suspense novel, Shadows of Home, is available on Amazon.com