No Apologies: On Writing About My Mother’s Life

My mother asked me to order her a cocktail—“nothing too sweet.” It was June 2019 and we were eating dinner in a restaurant by ourselves. Since the birth of my son, two years earlier, we had rarely been alone together. I was nervous and ordered her a drink at random. She took a sip and cringed.

“I need your permission for something,” I said.

“Okay,” she said.

“I want to write a book about your life.”

She took a second sip of her sugary cocktail. “I do think you had an interesting childhood.”

“Not my life,” I said. “Yours.”

My pitch: the next time I went home to Portland, she and I would take a road trip. We would drive through the deserts of eastern Oregon to Rexburg, Idaho, down to Salt Lake City, and farther south to Provo, Utah. My mother’s past would be our roadmap. At each campsite, cabin, or motel she would tell me about her life before she became a mother. I knew the highlights already. As a high schooler she had lived alone For years afterward, Relief Society sisters would knock on our door. “When are you coming back to church?” And my mother’s answer was always, “Never.”