“Anyway!”

A dear friend of mine said, “I never feel like your mother is really listening to me.”

“She’s not.” My reflex reply.

All my life, holding conversations with Mum has been tiring. She’s never fully present. She’s never fully listening. She’ll readily gossip about the misery and shortcomings of others, but as soon the first syllable escapes my mouth, her eyes glaze over.

And it’s not something I completely understand. But it’s fair to say this response has been typical and consistent across all parts of my life, not limited to conversations.

It’s almost like her disinterest in me, and what I have to say just doesn’t allow her to engage with me in a meaningful and open way. Sometimes, it’s as if her own story is definitive and absolute, and I’m just a one-dimensional character in her narrative. Of course, she listens enough to be at the ready—for her moment to  jump in—to offer her wisdom, judgement, or to reveal anyone’s feelings and motivations in any situation. But it’s often an opportunity for her to talk about her favourite topic. Her.

She often misses the point of anything I’m trying to communicate entirely. But that’s not surprising.

Her disinterest in me and my thoughts is enough for her to stop me mid-sentence with an “Anyway!” It’s that inescapable punchline that never gets funny—but you still laugh anyway. Because it’s part of the format. And because it’s ridiculous.