My mother told the doctor I was faking my seizure for attention while I was unconscious on the floor

It was proof that care didn’t have to come with conditions. It was proof that support didn’t have to feel like an obligation.

It showed that people could show up for you without making you feel like a burden. These were revolutionary concepts for someone raised by my mother.

Graduation came in June. I walked across the stage in my cap and gown, and Patricia and David stood up and cheered.

Linda was there too, and so was Dr. Ysef. My mother wasn’t.

I’d thought about inviting her. Dr. Ysef and I had processed it in therapy.

He’d said it was my choice and there was no wrong answer. He said I could invite her if I wanted closure or connection, or I could not invite her if I needed boundary protection.

I decided not to. Some wounds needed distance to heal.

Some relationships couldn’t be salvaged no matter how much therapy and good intentions you threw at them. My mother had sent a card to Patricia’s house.

I’d opened it to find a generic congratulations message and a check for $50. There was no personal note and no acknowledgement of the past two years, just money and a signature.

I’d torn up the check and thrown the card away. I hadn’t felt guilt about it either.

I just felt acceptance that we’d never have what other people had with their mothers. I accepted that I’d survived her instead of being nurtured by her.

The summer before college was peaceful. I worked full-time at the grocery store and saved every paycheck.

Patricia helped me shop for dorm supplies. David helped me move in on a hot August morning.

My roommate was a kid from California named Justin who played guitar and wanted to study engineering. We got along fine; we weren’t best friends, but we were compatible.

I settled into college life easier than I’d expected. The classes were interesting and the freedom was intoxicating.

I could go to bed when I wanted and eat what I wanted. I could take care of myself without someone telling me I was being dramatic or needy.

I found a support group for students with chronic illness. I met other people with epilepsy who understood the fear of having seizures in public.

We shared medication strategies and trigger management. I built a community of people who got it without me having to explain.

I didn’t talk to my mother for two years. There were no calls, no visits, and no contact.

I’d blocked her number and social media. Linda had closed my CPS case on my 18th birthday.

I was legally an adult, free to make my own choices about relationships and boundaries. Dr. Ysef helped me process the complicated grief of losing a parent who was still alive.

We processed the mourning of a relationship that had never been what I’d needed it to be. We worked through the anger at wasted years and unnecessary suffering.

I came to the slow acceptance that some people aren’t capable of change, no matter how many chances you give them. He helped me understand that protecting myself wasn’t the same as being cruel.

He helped me see that I didn’t owe my mother access to my life just because she’d given birth to me. He taught me that family was about behavior, not biology.

The call came during my sophomore year from an unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.

It was my mother. Her voice sounded smaller than I remembered and older.

She said she’d gotten my number from Patricia. She asked if we could talk.

I considered hanging up. I considered telling her to leave me alone.

Instead, I asked what she wanted. She said she’d been in therapy for real this time.

She said it wasn’t court-mandated but voluntary. She was working through her own trauma and patterns.

She said she’d finally started to understand what she’d done to me. She said she’d been repeating cycles from her own childhood and that she was sorry.

The word hung between us. “Sorry.”

It felt like it could undo years of being made to feel worthless. It felt like it could erase the medical neglect, the court battles, and the foster care.

It felt like it could make me forget watching her tell doctors I was faking while I was unconscious on the floor. I told her I appreciated the apology, but I wasn’t ready to have a relationship with her.

I said that maybe I never would be. I told her she’d have to accept that and respect my boundaries.

She was quiet for a long time. Then she said she understood.

She said she’d keep working on herself regardless. She said if I ever changed my mind, she’d be there.

She said she’d let me control the pace and terms of any contact. “Maybe someday.”

I didn’t promise anything. We hung up.

I sat in my dorm room staring at my phone, feeling nothing and everything at once. I felt relief, anger, sadness, and exhaustion.

Dr. Ysef would have called it progress. It was the ability to hear her apology without immediately accepting it or forgiving her.

It was the strength to maintain boundaries even when guilt tried to creep in. It was the understanding that reconciliation wasn’t required for me to move forward with my life.

Three years later, I graduated college with a degree in psychology. Patricia and David came to the ceremony.

So did Linda and Derek, who’d stayed my friend through everything. I’d found my people and built my chosen family.

I created a life that felt safe and stable and mine. I’d been seizure-free for four years thanks to medication, stress management, and therapy.

I’d learned to advocate for myself with doctors, professors, and anyone who needed to understand my needs. I’d learned that having needs wasn’t a weakness.

I learned that asking for help wasn’t manipulation. I learned that taking care of yourself wasn’t selfish.

These were lessons my mother never taught me. I’d had to learn them from strangers who became family.

I learned them from doctors who saw past her lies. I learned them from a system that, for once, worked the way it was supposed to.

I see my mother once a year now for coffee in a public place. It is a surface conversation.

There is no deep processing or emotional reconciliation. We are just two people who share biology sitting across from each other being civil.

She’s different, softer and more self-aware. She asks about my life without making it about her.

She listens without dismissing. It’s not the relationship I needed as a child, but it’s what we have as adults.

Dr. Ysef says that’s enough. He says that I don’t have to give her more than I’m comfortable with.

He says that healing doesn’t require forgiveness, just acceptance. I’ve accepted that my mother did her best with broken tools.

I accepted that her best wasn’t good enough. I survived anyway and built something better.

I broke the cycle she couldn’t break herself. My future children, if I have them, will never doubt whether their needs matter.

They’ll never be called dramatic for being sick or hurt. They’ll never be told they’re faking when they’re unconscious on the floor.