I found out my mum was a cult leader during her burial. She had created her own religion, a fusion of Judaism, Jesus, and herself, without informing me. Those who had faith in her referred to her as “Momma.” On their land, she and her husband held services in a triple-wide mobile home. She gave her followers advice on whom to marry and what careers to choose. She changed their names. She served as Solomon in drag for the South.

I saw a few followers doing some double takes as I entered the triple-wide’s place of worship. I was surrounded by electrified air. To see a representation of my mother’s face and halo of white, fluffy hair, people turned in their folding chairs. As the reincarnation of my mother, I had the impression that I could take over at any time. I shrugged off their looks, crossed the center aisle, and sat in the first row on a hard chair. My hubby gripped my hand as he sat at my side. I could feel her followers focusing their lasers on my back.

Tallises, white fabric strips with blue Stars of David embroidered on them, were placed on the dais. On top of one of the Jewish prayer shawls was a picture of Jesus. The genuine believers referred to my mother’s spouse as “Daddy,” and he loomed over them from a huge carved chair on the stage at the front of the room. The congregation began singing what he described as my mother’s favorite song once he cleared his voice. The chorus of the upbeat little song praised Jesus.

The crowd crowded around me after the ceremony while my spouse went to the coffee urn. One told me my mother was very proud of the successful businessman I had become. She was a lovely middle-aged lady. Another person awaited her turn to speak with me. She leaned in and grabbed both of my hands when it was just the two of us. Her hair’s too sweet aroma was detectable.

“You really hurt your mother,” she said. I made an attempt to remove my hands, but she merely tightened her hold. I also curse you. I shall visit her cemetery every Mother’s Day and condemn you there in memory of her passing. I looked around the space in search of my spouse. When he saw me, he swam through the mob to my side.

She told me to let go of my hands before adding, “Every bad thing that happens to you is because of those curses.” After then, she vanished out of the triple-wide’s door.

I just stood there in awe. I was led outside and into our rented vehicle by my husband. My brother phoned me about the will a few weeks later. “I have two naturally born children, neither of whom are my inheritors,” was the first sentence. She then gave my brother some spare coins.

My mother had beautiful, slender legs and was a model before she became a cult leader. With a bright, lipsticked grin, she lured folks in near enough to be charmed but far enough away to not be able to see through the spackle. My overbite earned me prizes at scientific fairs, spelling bees, and even tallest student competitions. (In third grade, I persuaded the front-of-the-line beanstalk that I was taller and took her seat.) All of these honors, however, failed to divert my mother’s gaze from the mirror.

However, I was aware of how to gain her unfavorable attention. We once stood yelling at each other in the restroom when I was a teenager.

With her sugary Southern accent gone, she screamed, “You are a child of the devil.” You’ll never have my brother’s level of affection, I promise.

Too furious to respond, I shoved her. She fell into the bathtub after losing her equilibrium. I was overcome with humiliation. We never discussed it.

I had enough at the age of 40 and instructed my mum not to get in touch. My brother finally phoned after 16 years without hearing her voice. Her dementia was severe. and passing away. Will I ever speak to her again? I considered my ideal selves. I didn’t want to be incapable of forgiving.

Hello, he said. “Let me go get your mom.”

The phone was exchanged. She asked, “Yeeess?” Despite having a spidery voice, it was still hers. My throat tightened at the sound of it.

“Ma.” I could hear her breath. “Wherever you are going, I want to wish you a safe trip. And to express my gratitude for you being my mum.

I wasn’t certain that she comprehended what I was saying. The paper in my hands shook as I read her my list of gratitude. I appreciate the hand-drawn drawings she tucked behind my PB&J sandwich in my childhood lunchbox. For being able to converse with strangers, as I saw her doing in the Piggly Wiggly shopping queue. Moreover, thanks for instilling in me a passion of reading and teaching me to read, both of which have often saved my life. I finished, and we both simply inhaled.

I told my mother, “I love you.

The air suddenly became motionless. It seemed as if my mother had surfaced from the ocean.

Next day, my mum passed away. after Mother’s Day.

Our phone conversations had the capacity to take me to the orange velour sofa I had brought with me to the other coast after college years before to her death, before I broke off communication with her. My adult blanket was there.

On one of those calls, she stated, “I’ve met the most gorgeous maaan.” She expelled the vowels smoothly, as though going down a spiral staircase.

I was unaware of this. Less than six months ago, she had split from my father.

I disliked my mother’s honeyed accent when she spoke softly in my ear. She was raised in an Orthodox Jewish household in New Jersey. When I was a youngster and we relocated to Georgia, she began to change into a Southern beauty. It started with the accent. The next step was to dye her hair bombshell blond instead of Northeast black. She was always able to change into other forms, particularly when among males.

Her voice’s rich falsetto enveloped me as it traveled through the air. My stomach began to clench. He certainly is the most attractive man, ma’am. He is tall. He has excellent manual dexterity. She uttered an enticing tone from her throat. I wasn’t dating her. Why was she addressing me in this manner?

I cut the call short. Every few days, she received calls asking about the mysterious, miraculous guy.

Later, not from her, but through my brother, I learned who the dashing guy was. To assist her leave our family home, my brother had been waiting for her on the porch. My brother was shocked to find our mother’s business partner behind the wheel when she eventually arrived.

Our father blocked the front entrance once he came on the porch. He brandished a finger of accusation at the business associate.

He said to my mother, “You may come in, but not him. He is not permitted here.

My mother eventually made the major admission: She had wed the business partner, who would later become known as Daddy to her followers but never to me.

I beat my fingers on the sofa arm as I looked at my wedding band glitter. I had already been married and had relocated as far away from her as I could while still being inside the same nation (with the exception of Hawaii). We spoke via phone once every couple weeks.

She said, “I saw the most beautiful maaan.” I moaned. She hadn’t remarried happily, right?

He entered my bedroom via the ceiling, I said.

Say what? In order to hold onto my husband’s sanity, I worried when he would be home.

“What the heck are you talking about, Ma?” I first stroked the orange velour in one way, then the other, on the sofa.

The guy apparently glided down and stood over her in bed. His brown hair was long and curly, and there was no breeze. His slender form was shown by his white robe’s waistband. He offered her a gaze of unadulterated affection, which thrilled her to her core.

She responded rather primly, “It was Jesus,” as if I should have known.

I was filled with inquiries. The largest one is how a Southern belle from New Jersey who is Jewish meets Jesus in her bedroom. I never questioned her in that way. I did ask her whether Hitler would go to paradise if he had embraced Jesus on his deathbed.

Yeeess was the swaying tone on the other end of the phone. My stomach clenched.

And if a good rabbi rejects Jesus, is he going to hell? I was now calling her from the kitchen while pacing and gripping the phone so tenaciously that it may break.

My mum gave a positive response. I didn’t know that she would later begin gathering real believers who would give her the admiration she couldn’t find in me but found in the mirror.

Mother’s Day will soon arrive. I see her follower—the one who cursed me—kneeling at Ma’s grave and holding a dozen flowers. She snarls as she gets to her feet. Will they be audible in my dreams?

When I consider what my mother must have said about me to encourage the curse, my heart aches.

In Judaism, you place a rock on top of the gravestone when you pay your respects to the deceased. a layer of rocks. Rocks are portable, obvious expressions of affection that last through time whereas roses wilt.

I now understand that, despite being eternally smashed, even by a hammer from beyond the grave, my love for my mother will never really go.

And because of that unending love, I understand that her follower doesn’t have to slander me on Mother’s Day. The ultimate curse is that, like a ghost that never disappears, a jagged sliver of affection for my mother will always remain lodged there. similar to a rock atop a tombstone.